


Do Not Go Gentle

by abbyli



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ages bumped up, Badass Stark Sisters, But no one knows he is a Targaryen, Canon can go suck an egg, Everyone knows Jon is Lyanna's son, F/M, Magic, Married Jonsa, POV chapters, Pining, Protective Sansa, Rickon Survives, Robb Survives, Separation, Soft LOTR AU, Starks Can Warg (And Will Warg A Lot), The Wolves Survive, Upcoming Jaime/Brienne, Upcoming Robb/Ygritte
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-10-15 03:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17521508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyli/pseuds/abbyli
Summary: "Sansa, Jon loves you. More than anything. More than life."or..Sansa marries Jon instead of Joffrey.





	1. Ned

 

.

.

Lyanna’s screams of pain haunt him long after that terrible day at the tower.

Ned remembers fighting. And blood. There’s so much blood that even he felt his stomach turn a few times. Blood never bothered him before until now.

Lyanna’s sobbing as the babe is born, blood and tears streaking her face. The midwife lifts up the squalling babe who silences almost immediately when his torn eyes open and focus on his mother. The midwife wraps the babe up in a warm blanket and deposits him in Lyanna’s shaking arms.

“A boy, milady,” The midwife whispers. “A son.”

“A son,” Lyanna murmurs, almost marveling at the sight. She’s almost too weak to nurse but the midwife helps. The baby clutches at her when Lyanna falls to sleep and the midwife eases him into her arms to continue.

Howland enters the room and surveys the scene before him before shifting his gaze to where Ned sits. “The horses are ready. Can she be moved?”

Ned shakes his head. “I don’t...no.”

“She will have to be if we hope to make it to Winterfell in the next days.” Howland’s hand rests on Ned’s shoulder. “Do you understand, boy?”

Ned nods. “Yes.”

They wait another four hours, for Lyanna to sleep and to wake and to nurse the snuffling baby one more time. The dead guards are buried in the dirt outside and the horses are brought forth once again, a makeshift carriage brought up with a slab wide enough to support Lyanna’s body as they rode.

“She won’t make the journey,” The midwife hisses, grabbing Ned’s arm as they ready to move Lyanna. 

Ned pulls his arm away and Lyanna cries out as she is lifted up, the babe wailing. She tries to shush her son as they carry the both of them down the stairs, his sister trying her best and failing as she begs them to stop, to let her rest for a moment.

The moment is all too brief. The other midwife had spread the few spare clean beddings on the carriage, an attempt to make it more comfortable for the journey they all know is going to be short. Once Lyanna is belted down, her son still snuggled in her arms, they ride.

Lyanna dies on the third day of the journey, having never spoken a word to him.

-;

Catelyn peers down at the tiny babe in the cradle, her pretty face twisted in confusion. She glances back at him, hand on her swollen stomach. “I don’t understand...what are we to do with him?”

“He’s our nephew. He will remain here.”

“As our son?” Catelyn asks.

Ned looks away. “He’s our nephew,” he says again. “He’s...”

“A bastard,” Catelyn says. Ned’s eyes cut to hers and there is no malice there, only empathy. “He’s a Snow.”

“Aye,” Ned agrees. “He is.”

“Shall he have a name?”

Ned nods, blinking hard. He shall not cry now. He cannot. He has his growing family to care for, he cannot let himself be weak. “He shall.”

Catelyn leans into his side, her arm sliding around his waist. When her fingers gently dig into his flesh, he concentrates on the feeling of it. Of her touch, and how it reminds him how he is very much alive.

“Jon,” he breathes after a long while and Catelyn nods.

“A fine name.”

Jon. Jon Snow.

-;

Robb Stark is born the following day, his cradle set near Jon’s. A nurse is brought in to care for Jon as Catelyn cares for Robb but she still sings for them both.

Jon doesn’t cry much, only during one horrid time when he and Robb both fall deathly ill with the fever that takes several other lives within the Winterfell walls. Ned stays with Catelyn when she falls to the fever too, nearly eight moons along with their second babe. The nurses are good and report back to him every three hours on the boys’ conditions, their young faces joyful when they inform him, just as Catelyn’s fever breaks that the boys are to live and grow and fight again.

A daughter is born in the spring and they call her Sansa.

-;

Ned smiles proudly as he watches his son and his nephew gently exchange blows with the wooden swords he had made them. Jon laughs as he fakes a push and Robb falls for it, rolling his eyes when Jon taps him with the flat side of his sword.

“You are funny, Jon!” Robb regards his cousin with a smile.

“I am Aemon!” Jon declares. “The last of the Targaryens to save the fair lady!”

Sitting on a rock, her sewing spread in her lap as she catches a few whisps of the warm winter sun, Sansa looks up, surprised as Jon smiles at her. Ned cocks his head to the side, waiting as Jon walks over to her and extends his hand. Sansa eyes it for a moment and Ned wonders if she will refuse.

And then, to his great astonishment, Sansa places her sewing on a dry patch of ground and places her hand in Jon’s. “Good ser, it is such a relief to be saved from Florian the Fool.”

They both turn their gazes at Robb who does a dramatic roll of the eyes before lifting his wooden sword again. “Back, ser! The lady shall not go with you!”

Sansa grins as Jon lightly pushes her behind him and they spar again. Ned doesn’t watch much longer, one of lords approaching down the long walkway and pulling him away.

-;

Catelyn startles as she turns the corner, a whining Rickon clutching his chubby arms around her neck as she surveys the sight before her. The shouting had made her come running from changing Rickon into his night clothes and now, all before her were children wrestling, shouting, and some even crying.

“What is happening?!” she demands and Rickon startles at the loudness of her voice so close to his ears. She signals to Sansa who immediately comes forward and takes her littlest brother from her arms and Catelyn stands over the mess of young ones, hands on her hips. “ _What_ is going on?”

Arya’s the first to speak, fat tears streaming down her cheeks as she points to Robb and Jon and Theon. “ _They_ will not let me join them on the hunting party tomorrow!”

Catelyn’s brows shoot up her forehead and she glances towards her son and nephew before shifting her gaze at her second daughter. “Arya, why would you want to attend the hunting party? It is a long exhausting trip and could go on for two or three days at the _least.”_

“I don’t care!” Arya insists and for added effect, gets up from the floor just to stamp her foot. “I am just as good of a shot as Jon, even _better_ than Robb. I can help!”

Robb sighs, hands on his hips. “I told her that it would be no place for a lady and she wouldn’t listen.”

“That’s just it though,” Sansa says quietly. “Arya is no _lady._ She follows Jon and Robb everywhere and _can_ keep up.” Arya gapes at her sister in amazement. “I’d say, let her go with them. At least, if Father allows it. Jon, don’t you agree?”

“Huh? Uh, sure!” Catelyn regards her red faced nephew with a tilt of the mouth before nodding.

Robb rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He waggles his finger for added effect. “I will not say I didn’t warn any of you.”

Five days later, as the gates of Winterfell open, Arya is the first to enter, four dead rabbits slung over her shoulder and a sheepish Jon following with Robb bringing up the rear. Sansa laughs at her mother’s side, leaning in when Catelyn wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I knew she could do it.”

Catelyn peers at her daughter for a moment, wondering what had caused this change. As Sansa rushes down to join the others, Catelyn’s gaze finds Ned’s in the crowd and he gives her wide smile.

She couldn’t be happier.

-;

“What is _he_ doing here?”

Ned crosses his arms behind his back, hand reaching for the dagger hidden underneath his shift. “I will find out. Please return to the castle.”

“Ned –“

“Do as I say please.”

Catelyn nods and turns on her heel, hurrying along a few of the lords’ children. Ned waits as Jon Connington approaches him slowly, urging his tired horse along until they are right before him.

“Theon, take care of Lord Connington’s horse and make sure it gets plenty of feed and water.”

“Yes my lord.”

The boy takes the bridle when Lord Connington slides off of the horse, clicking his tongue and urging the beast away. Lord Connington stands just a pace in front of Ned and reaches into his cloak. “I came on urgent matters, Lord Stark.”

“And why did you not send a raven to inform me of your arrival?” Ned asks.

“Because I was sure that you would have men waiting to put me in shackles the moment I arrived,” Lord Connington returns and Ned’s hackles raise. Lord Connington pulls a thick booklet from under his cloak and slaps it against Ned’s chest. “We need to discuss these.”

Ned glances down but does not touch the papers that Connington still holds. “What are these?”

“The last testament of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Ned suddenly has the urge to vomit.

-;

“You must think me for a fool, Lord Connington.”

Connington looks away, almost lazily walking over to the window of his solar and looking out as the summer sun begins to set. “Aye, I’m sure you think that but it is the furthest from the truth.” He points to the parchment spread out on the desk. “ _That_ is the truth.”

“It cannot be possible.”

“But it is,” Connington returns. “The boy is a Targaryen.”

“My sister...” Ned licks his lips, searching for words that just cannot come.

“Cheerfully fucked Rhaegar Targaryen. Ran _away_ with Rhaegar Targaryen. Would have married Rhaegar Targyen if she had had the chance.”

The truth is cruel.

Ned bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. “Why are you here?” he asks again.

“I’ve come for the boy.”

The documents crumble in Ned’s fist. “You’re not serious.”

“I wish I wasn’t, my lord.” Connington gives him a hard look. “Rhaegar named me as the boy’s guardian in case anything happened to him.”

“What did Rhaegar offer you? How many gold dragons are you due to inherit when you collect the boy?”

Connington winced but shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve only got the Dragonstone.”

“His seat?” Ned repeated. He swallowed hard. “You take the boy and he won’t live. Robert Baratheon will murder him in an instant.”

For the first time in their meeting, Connington looks sorrowful. “Not if I claim him as my boy.”

Ned’s eyes widen in shock. “The North knows that is not true.”

“The _North_ knows he is Lyanna Stark’s son. But the North does not know of his father. _You_ and I are the only ones on this Earth that know it. And it will remain between us until we draw our last breaths. The boy will know when he becomes of age, but the boy seems quite uninterested in being anything but a Stark.”  

“My children...”

“Will see your nephew again when he is of age,” Connington informs him. “I will claim him as my bastard, but he will remain a Snow. I doubt he will agree to become Jon Connington the Second and I do not blame him for that. I am a weak man, Lord Stark. A very weak man. I was very lucky to have Rhaegar’s loyalty.”

“And yet here you stand.”

“To fulfill my last promise to a dear friend.” Connington turns away to gaze out the lone window in Ned’s solar. “Have the boy ready by the morn. We will leave at daybreak.”

Ned shutters when the other man storms from his solar, slamming the door behind him.

-;

Arya screams the loudest.

“No! No, no, no, he cannot take Jon!”

“Arya...”

His little daughter stands before him, tiny fists clenched with fury. The sword that Jon had given her for her nameday, her beloved Needle, rests at her hip and he wonders if she is about to draw it for the fight. He tries to settle his hands on his daughter’s shoulders but she shakes him off, fat tears scalding her cheeks. “No, father, don’t let that man take Jon!”

“I have too, love,” he whispers, settling down on his knees. “He is Jon’s...father.” The word tastes bad on his tongue. “Jon is to live with him until he is of age. And then Jon will return to us. To the North.”

“That’s not for another five years!” Arya wails.

“It will over in a blink.” That comes from Jon now. Ned looks up to watch his nephew cross the floor carefully, his grey eyes sad but understanding. He catches Arya as she throws herself into his arms, smiling at them all over the top of her head. “It will be over in a blink, Arya.”

Robb’s the next to approach him, pulling him into an embrace with Arya jammed between them. “You’re our brother. You’re always welcome here.”

Jon pats him on the back before gently detangling Arya’s arms from his waist. “I will return to the North. I serve the North. It is my home.”

“Don’t let the Southron sun bleach your brain too much, Snow,” Theon offers with a teasing grin.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Never, Greyjoy.”

Sansa’s the only one that doesn’t speak or approach Jon. Even Catelyn gives his curls a soft stroke with her long fingers and Ned marvels at his wife for a minute. “Sansa?”

It’s only when Jon is gone that he sees his daughter’s tears. She blinks hard and wipes them away but he saw them.

-;

“Jon Connington is dead.”

Ned’s head shoots up from his papers to stare at his wife. “Come again?”

Catelyn nods, staring at the letter like it holds the secrets to all of Westeros. “Three weeks ago. The cancer took him. It says here that he drank so much that his liver failed him.” She meets his gaze. “Shall I write a letter and send for the boy?”

Ned’s mouth stretches into a smile.

-;

Jon is barely off his horse before Arya barrels into him, knocking him right to the snow covered ground. Ned laughs as he watches them wrestle like they used too before ending up in a sweet embrace. Robb joins the fray, helping them both to their feet before stuffing a snowball down the hood of Arya’s cloak and taking off like a shot.

“And he is the future Lord of Winterfell,” Catelyn muses, resting her head against Ned’s shoulder.

Ned chuckles, kissing his wife’s hair. “Let them be.”

“Oh always,” Catelyn instantly agrees. She chuckles as Jon catches up to Robb and Arya and shoves Robb down into the snow. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

-;

He notices Sansa’s delight when she lays eyes on Jon at dinner. She hadn’t been out to greet Jon at his arrival, due to fighting off a fever for the last few days and tonight the maester had deemed her healthy enough to join the rest of them for the evening kip.

Sansa remains in her seat as she is served, and that’s when Jon glimpses her. The same smile crosses his face and he gives a little wave that she returns, the tips of her ears turning a light shade of pink. Her expression turns into one of severe annoyance when Arya hits her in the face with a lump of mushy bread.

-;

“I have a son and you have a daughter. We’ll join our houses.”

Ned hesitates at his dear friend’s words. He glances up at Robert and bites his lip. “She’s just a child, my lord.”

Robert sniffs. “She is six and ten. She’s no longer a child. My boy will make her a fine husband. They will sing songs of their love.”

“Like yours and Cersei’s?” Ned regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips. “Forgive me.”

“I don’t understand why you are turning down this offer. It could be what Lyanna and I were not.”

Ned inwardly curses himself. “I’m sorry, my lord. I will have to talk it over with my daughter.”

“Then talk it over with both of your daughters. Arya may still be young but she is old enough to be betrothed. A double match?”

“With Tommen?” Ned asks. “Arya would never agree to that.”

“She will. Eventually,” Robert warns him. “Make it so.”

-;

Arya reacts just the way he expects her to. With disdain. “He’s a _boy._ He’s only Bran’s age!”

“Closer to Rickon’s actually,” Sansa offers. “Father, I would love the songs. I’ve dreamed of them since _I_ was Rickon’s age but –“

Ned jumps on this and exchanges a glance with Catelyn over the top of Arya’s head. “But what, sweetling?”

“Not with Joffrey. I don’t...” Sansa chews on her words. “...he is quite dashing and beautiful. We would make lovely blond haired babies but –“ She turns to look at her mother. “I don’t believe there would ever be love between us. He’s...mean.”

“Mean?”

“He’s foul to Tommen. Only Myrcella is able to stand up to him and I think that’s because she is taller than he is at the moment,” Arya helpfully supplies.

Catelyn snorts and they share a grin. “I don’t want to be with someone who treats their own little brother like he’s the dirt in his horse’s shoes.”

That’s enough for Ned.

He shifts his gaze over to Arya, who squirms. “I cannot reject both offers, sweetling.”

“Me and Tommen though?” Arya glares up at him, her nose turned up in disdain. “Why not Robb to Myrcella? She would come here and be Lady of Winterfell. We wouldn’t have to be near Joffrey at all.”

“Cersei would never allow that,” Catelyn replies. “The truth is, a betrothal _can_ be broken.”

“It can?” Arya jumps on this and Catelyn smiles.

“It can.”

-;

He sends Robert and his party off with one refusal and one temporary acceptance. Arya scowls for the next three days but eventually forgets about it when the direwolves are found.

Ned fights a smile at Bran’s begging eyes as he cuddles the lemon yellow pup in his arms. “You will train them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves. Do you understand?”

“Yes Father!”

The sixth pup is found and Jon carries him back, accepting the other grey pup that Robb passes to him as they cross into the gates of Winterfell. Sansa and Arya come out to meet them, to inspect their kills and absolutely light up like the stars above at the sight of the puppies. Theon hands the grey flecked one to Arya and storms off and Ned watches as Jon eases the wee lady into Sansa’s hands.

“She’s absolutely precious.” Sansa beams up at Jon.

Robb comes over to join them, a squalling grey little boy in his hands. “You should thank Snow too, sister. Father thought the pups should be put out of their misery but Jon stopped him.”

Sansa turned wide eyes back to Jon. “You did?”

Jon flushes but Robb laughs, holding up his pup. “This was all his idea.”

“ _Stark,”_ Jon growls menacingly and he probably would have smacked Robb if he didn’t have the puppy in his arms.

“What are you going to name him, Snow?”

Jon glances down at the sleeping pup in his own hands. “I don’t know yet.”

“He’s so white,” Sansa muses, gently stroking her fingers over the pup’s soft fur. “Like a ghost.”

-;

“The offers for Sansa’s hand are still coming.”

Ned sighs, rubbing his fingers into his temple. “Aye.”

“We cannot keep turning down every single one, Ned. What about the younger Tarly boy? I’m sure Sansa would enjoy Horn Hill.”

“I’m sure she would but Sansa does not want to leave Winterfell.”

“Lord Manderly’s son –“

“What about Jon?” Catelyn stares at him like he had suddenly sprouted a stag’s head out of his shoulder. Ned hastens his explanation. “They’re not that close but they get along with each other fairly well. Sansa would not have to leave Winterfell and she would take over Robb’s duties when he is unable to perform them. And Jon...Jon’s deepest wish is to be a Stark. I will officially legitimize him as Lyanna’s trueborn son and this will make it so.” He swallows. “Jon’s good. He’s brave and gentle and strong. He would treat Sansa with the utmost of respect.”

Catelyn settles herself down into the chair opposite of his desk, biting her lip. “It would be nice not to lose her to another house. I’ve barely been back to Riverrun since...”

“We will go back there,” Ned assures her. “Together.”

“With the scads of grandchildren we will soon have?”

Ned laughs. “Most definitely.”

-;

To his grand surprise, it’s Jon who rejects his offer.

“No.”

Sansa balks and scowls at her companion. Her right hand remains rested on Lady’s fur, the growing pup sitting at attention. Ned lifts his brows at Jon. Nearing his nine and ten nameday, the boy is no longer a boy, but now a man. “Nephew –“

“Uncle Ned, you do not have to do that. Sansa deserves someone better than me.”

“Who’s says that person exists?” Sansa bursts out.

“You’d be tied to a bastard your whole life.”

“Legitimized!” Sansa reminds him. “You would be a lord of Winterfell. The North loves you. They’d accept it, wouldn’t they Father?”

“They already have.”

“Jon,” Catelyn steps forward to stand beside him. “We will not force either of you into this betrothal. The final choice remains with you. But do consider it fairly. Understand your options. The offers for Sansa’s hand continue to come in and we cannot turn down every single one of them.”

“I don’t...” All eyes rest on Sansa. “I want to stay here. I don’t want to leave.”

He can see the defeat in Jon’s eyes. He could never turn down anything that either Sansa or Arya asked of him.

“I will need three more witnesses.”

-;

Robb, Lord Greatjon Umber, Catelyn, and Ser Rodrik Cassel stand in Ned’s solar.

Jon remains seated, Sansa beside him. Ghost and Lady stand at their sides, eyes wild and alert. “My lords,” Ned begins. “My lady,” he adds with a smile at Catelyn. “I’ve called you here today as witnesses for the official legitimization of my nephew Jon.”

“Took ye long enough, Stark.”

Robb turns a laugh into a cough. Ned rolls his eyes at Ser Rodrik, retreating behind his desk. “My nephew will be known from now on as the true born son of my sister Lyanna Stark. He will carry the name Stark until his last day. His children will become Starks. He will be my final heir behind Rickon.”

“Then make it so,” Greatjon replies.

Jon’s hand trembles as he signs the document with his new name. Robb laughs, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder.

“And one final thing,” Ned exchanges another look with Catelyn, who nods encouragingly. “I will announce to you all here today the betrothal between Jon and my eldest daughter Sansa.”

Robb gasps, Greatjon gapes, and Rodrik takes a long draft from his flask. “I personally don’t give a cow’s ass who your daughter marries as long as it’s someone who doesn’t treat her like shit. Congratulations to the young couple, I’m sure you will be very happy together.”

He toasts them with his flask and sweeps from the solar. Greatjon follows with a roll of his eyes, clapping Robb on the shoulder as he passes. “I expect there to be lots of mead at the wedding.”

Only then do Sansa and Jon start to laugh.

-;

Three weeks before the wedding, he is awoken out of a sound sleep by a handmaid. “I’m so sorry, my lord. Your brother Lord Benjen is at the gates.”

Ned groans and sits up. “Go alert the guards to let him in.”

The maid sweeps from the chambers. Catelyn stirring beside him. “Shall I accompany you?”

Ned shakes his head. “Go back to sleep. I will send someone if I need you.” Catelyn doesn’t answer, already back fast asleep.

He dresses in the dark and grabs his cloak before leaving the chambers as quietly as he can. The same maid meets him in the corridor and leads him to the Great Hall where a grand fire roars and his brother stands, cloaked all in black.

“Benjen?”

His brother turns on his heel and gives him a smile. Ned doesn’t bother controlling himself as he approaches him in three great strides and wraps him in a tight hug. “You’re...freezing. Get back in front of that fire.”

Benjen chuckles. “I will always be the littlest to you, big brother?”

Ned nods. “Right. What brings you here in the dead of night?”

Benjen rests his hand against the mantle, gazing into the flames. “I bring news from beyond the Wall.”

Ned’s heartbeat begins to quicken. “What news, brother?”

“We have glimpsed an army. They are marching southward.”

“What kind of army?”

“A dead one.”

-;

“You’re going to the Wall? Have you lost your mind?”

Ned turns to kiss her quickly. “Perhaps.”

“But – _Ned –“_

“I will send a raven at my arrival. Protect Winterfell. Robb and Jon will help you.”

He kisses her again and then he’s gone.

-;

“Sansa is due to be wed soon.”

Benjen sighs. “How soon?”

“Another two weeks. She’s already finished sewing her cloak and was putting the finishing touches on her gown.”

“I’m sorry brother. I will try to have you back by then.”

“You will be staying too, of course?”

Benjen grins. “You betrothed her to Jon? I expected that after your raven that you were going to legitimize him.”

Ned nods. “I need her to be safe. And he will keep her safe.”

“It is a good match,” Benjen agrees. “I’m surprised Sansa agreed to it though. What happened to the songs of a true knight?”

“She let them go after she witnessed her knight in shining armor doing a cruel thing.”

-;

The walker roars.

“Go! _Go!”_

He races forward, holding Ice tightly in his left hand as he runs. Benjen’s right behind him, yelling directions in his ear and suddenly he feels a hard hand on the back of his collar that _yanks_ hard. He slashes with Ice but Benjen’s still shouting. “It’s me! Calm yourself, it’s me!”

“What in _gods_ was that thing?!”

Benjen shakes him roughly. “It was a white walker. They are the soldiers of the dead. Anyone who dies North of the wall is doomed to become one.”

“So _they --?”_

“Are coming. They’re coming for all of us.”

-;

Somehow he makes it back in time for the wedding.

Winterfell is alive with people, filled with the lights of a thousand skies.

He trudges through the muck, his brother behind him as they make their way up to the castle, looking quite like the walkers that they had seen.

Catelyn appears, dressed her best in a robes of the Winterfell grey, and gives him a long stare. “You all right?”

He nods. “If that is the right thing to say.”

Her lips setting into a thin line, she calls out to a handmaid standing just a few feet behind her. “Wylla, would you please help Lord Stark and his brother to my chambers and bring them their wedding garments?”

The maid nods, curtsying quickly before practically marching them down the corridor and up the stairs. “Cat is not pleased, is she?” Benjen whispers.

“We tell her everything after the wedding. But for now...”

“Now we wait,” Benjen finishes.

-;

He hadn’t cried since the day Lyanna died.

But now, _now,_ the tears were burning his eyes as he made his way to where Sansa waited in the godswood. He swore that she wore those same little lights in her hair, elegantly braided back in the same style her mother wore on the day that they wed.

Robb stands to her left and is the one to place her hand in his before giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Looks like I am not needed after all.” He slips away to join his siblings, Grey Wind at his heels.

“Mother was worried you wouldn’t make it in time.”

The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. “I’m here now.” He extends his hand. “Shall we?”

Sansa smiles and takes it, casting that same one down to Lady at her side. “We shall.”

They walk slowly through the snow covered path together, following the path of candles that had been left for them. “You look lovely, my dear.”

Color rises in Sansa’s cheeks. “Thank you, Father.”

They reach the guests. Jon waits by the weirwood tree, the bridal cloak gripped in his hands. Ned almost laughs at the obvious nerves all over the boy’s face. He leads Sansa up the slope and lifts up Jon’s hand and places Sansa’s delicate one in his palm, and he nods to Jon before going to join his wife.

-;

The violinist’s hands move so fast, he is reminded of the beat of a raven’s wings.

Sansa is alive with joy, her hair having come down out of her braids as she dances. She dances with her husband, with her brothers, with her sister, hardly ever leaving the floor. Ned stays seated beside Catelyn, laughing with her as their daughters crash into each other and nearly fall to the floor, both giggling bundles of light.

“Sister, I am stealing your husband for a dance!” Arya declares and whisks Jon off before he has the chance to protest.

Sansa laughs at the expression of shock on Jon’s face, allowing Robb to pull her away. 

“She is certainly a beautiful bride.”

Ned feels his back tense as Robert lowers himself into the chair beside him. “Aye.”

“Her wedding gown is lovely. She must teach my Myrcella her stitch work. Cersei was never good with a needle and thread. Myrcella would love to be taught.”

“I’m sure Sansa would enjoy helping Myrcella,” Catelyn cuts across helpfully. “I’m sure the bride wouldn’t mind you cutting in, your grace.”

Robert takes another slug of mead from his goblet, letting it fall to the table with a loud clatter. “I shall but first –“ he turns to the both of them. “My Myrcella has been betrothed to young lord Dickon of House Tarly.”

Catelyn’s brows lift in surprise. “Cersei is allowing Myrcella to ward in Horn Hill?”

“Not quite yet,” Robert admits. “She wants to have the official announcement first. After that is over, I intend on sending Myrcella off to Horn Hill in the spring. I also need Randyll Tarly as an ally and a marriage between his son and my daughter will help that.”

Ned nods in understanding, sharing a smile with Catelyn. “Makes perfect sense, Robert.”

Robert takes another deep draft from his goblet, letting it smack down on the table once it is empty. “Now, I shall go cut in.”  

Sansa is dancing with Jon again, the two gazing at each other with shyness. “I don’t see why not.”

Robert beams drunkenly and goes to stand up. He pats Ned on the shoulder so hard that he nearly falls off of his chair. “Oh by the way,” he leans in close again, his mouth at Ned’s ear. “You and your lovely family are coming to Kings Landing for my Myrcella’s betrothal announcement.” Ned opens his mouth to protest and Robert waves his hand. “I insist! I will not take no for an answer, Ned!”

Ned watches his old friend march off and nearly trip over a pair of dancers. He winces as he pats Greatjon Umber on the back a little too roughly before stealing a gaping Sansa away.

“I’m surprised he came. With Jon being the groom and everything.”

Ned reaches over to take Catelyn’s hand in both of his. “That’s why he’s drunk off his ass.”

“Give him a minute and then go and cut in. He’s trodden on Sansa’s feet twice already.”

He doesn’t have too. As he gets to his feet, Jon gently shakes off Wylla Manderly and walks over, easing in to rescue a wincing Sansa. Robert grumbles in annoyance and tromps off to look for more mead. The music picks up again and the newlyweds are laughing and spinning around in delight once more.

“It’s a good match.”

Ned turned to Catelyn and sees peace reflected back in her face. She smiles and leans in, pressing her lips to his chin and he rests his head against hers, reaching an arm to wrap around her shoulders. 

-;

Toasts to the new Lord and Lady went on until the wee hours of the morning. He had put his foot down on the official bedding much to Catelyn's and from the looks of it, Sansa’s relief too. He did see, as the festivities stretched on, Sansa and her new husband sneak away to head up to the bridal chambers. Theon does a little jeering and Ned makes sure to smack the boy on the back of the head as he passes by to return to the head table. 

“Where’s Robert?” Catelyn asks as he settles tiredly back into his seat.

Ned shrugs. “Not sure. Probably passed out in some corner.”

Catelyn snorts. “The King of the Seven Kingdoms, still cannot hold his mead.”

“Could be the ten and two gallons he’s tucked away,” Ned sighs. He watches as Catelyn climbs to her feet. “Off to sleep?”

“It is much needed. Our children have retired and the newlyweds have gone off. We are not required here anymore.” She smiles fondly at the last few guests in the hall and turns to leave but Ned’s hand slides around her arm. “Ned -?”

He gives her arm a gentle tug. “I need to see you in my solar before we retire. Alone.”

Catelyn nods and Ned signals to Benjen, who has a goblet in his hand. He set it down and followed, the last of the partygoers beginning to traipse from the Great Hall.

“What’s happened?” are the first words out of Catelyn’s mouth when Benjen closes the door to the solar. “What did you two see...up there?”

Ned blinked in surprise but said nothing, allowing his brother to take the lead. Catelyn collapses into the chair behind his desk as Benjen explains everything they had seen, her face becoming frightfully pale. “Cat? Cat, are you all right?”

Her lips move soundlessly for a moment before she utters, “ _Mead.”_ Benjen steps out of the way as Ned’s clumsy fingers reach for the flask on his side table, barely getting a chance to pour a glass out before Catelyn snatches it away and downs the whole thing in two gulps. She gasps slightly at the burn and looks up at them. “How long do we have?”

Benjen shakes his head. “Could be weeks. Could be months. Could be years. But a war... the Long Night? It’s coming.”

“There’s a war coming in the South too.” Both men stare at Catelyn like she had suddenly grown the Baratheon antlers. “I’ve heard whispers all through the feast. Robert --?”

“What did he say to you?”

“It’s what he didn’t say. Betrothing Myrcella to the Tarly boy and getting her to Horn Hill? A neutral territory? Pushing you to arrange a match between Arya and Tommen? He wants Tommen to ward here at Winterfell –“ she gasps, a hand clawing at her chest. “Our children! They are no longer safe! Robb will have to join the forces and Bran won’t be too far behind. Sansa should be starting her new life with her husband and Arya –“ Neither of them pay attention as Benjen slowly slipped out, leaving them alone in the solar. 

Tears are forming in Catelyn’s eyes as Ned in front of her, hand cupping her cheek. “Our children...” She gasps again, a few tears leaking down her face. “...will live,” Ned murmurs, reaching his other hand up to stroke a stray curl of hair away from her eyes. “Our children are stronger than we are. They will endure and they will _live.”_

And live, they shall.

-;

The Ironborn attack before dawn.

Ned wakes to Catelyn slipping out of his arms and making for the window. “Ned? _Ned!”_

He sees the flames without having to even get out of bed. A rapid knocking comes at the door and Catelyn rushes to open it, two of their handservants practically falling through to the floor. “We’re being attacked, milady!”

The rest is a blur.

He remembers dressing quickly and grabbing Ice, greeting Catelyn at the door. He cups the back of her neck and brings her in for a hard kiss. “Go find the children. I will meet you at the gates.”

She nods, kissing him back. “Aye.” The door swings open and she goes left towards the children’s chambers while he goes right, heading for the Great Hall.

Robert's already down there, shouting to be heard above the noise. The King waves at him and gestures to his left and that’s when Ned sees a groggy Sansa, still in her wedding gown. Ned doesn’t have time to mull over that as he sinks to his knees before his daughter. “Sansa, what -?”

“Jon went out to help the defenses with Uncle Benjen. He said he would meet me here.”

There's a fleck of blood on her cheek and he gently wipes it off with his thumb. “Are you all right, love?”

She nods and he gets up, helping her up too. “Who is doing this?”

“The Ironborn!” Robert bellows after shouting at a few men to head outside towards the back gates. “We’re going to have to leave!”

“What? Why --?”

Before Robert can answer Sansa’s question, there’s a loud explosion from outside. Sansa ducks her head and Ned cups her neck with the back of his hand. “There’s why. Come on, the horses are already being brought out!”

“ _Lady!”_ Sansa shouts and the enormous grey wolf comes charging from the corner.

“Wait!” Ned turns to his right to see a much smaller blur dashing down the corridor, followed by her own wolf. Arya.

He grabs her shoulders before she can crash into them, Needle clutched in her fist. “Where’s your mother? Where are your siblings?”

Arya’s mouth moves but he can’t hear anything over the commotion. “She went to get Robb and Bran and Rickon! She told me to come down here!”

The ruckus in the Great Hall is getting louder and louder and Ned cannot hear himself think. Both of his daughters hold onto each of his hands, both waiting for him to tell them what to do and he almost doesn’t know what to do. Peace has been in Westeros for the last nineteen years and he had forgotten what war was like.

Another explosion rattles the doors. “We have to leave now!”

Ned barks a command at the wolves and grabs his daughters’ hands tightly in both of his, practically marching them right from the Great Hall and out onto the grounds where dozens of horses are being brought out by the stewards.

And then the stables go up in flames.

_“No!”_

Ned manages to snatch Arya by the back of the neck before she can bolt away. Soldiers from their side and soldiers from the other side are running past, and Ned shoves Arya towards a black mare. “Get on the horse! _Now!”_ Sansa does the same without being told and Ned points at Robert. “Get them out of here!” He is only the Warden of the North and doesn’t have the power to tell the King of the Seven Kingdoms what to do, but Robert nods, turning to yell more orders at the northern squires before mounting his own horse.

Ned unsheathes Ice and gets ready to head back inside to look for Catelyn and their sons. The front door explodes with Ironborn and...and...Boltons.

He recognizes the flayed man sigil, lifting his sword and slicing into the front of one who dares charge at him. They’re coming fast and he turns and spins, still agile on his feet despite his aging status. He can hear Sansa yelling from behind and Lady pounces to help him. He pushes the wolf back with one arm, taking a nip to the wrist for his troubles. “Go!” he shouts at the wolf, and at the others that are still waiting. “ _Go!”_

Robert screams a command and he hears the clatter of hooves over the screams of the dying. He barely notices the slice of pain in his calf, twirling to sink Ice into the stomach of a man wearing the sign of a flayed man. He pushes harder, determined to get back inside and then...and then...

_“Catelyn!”_

He glimpses a horse managing to flee from the burning stable. He slices Ice into the neck of the last Ironborn that tries to get close, throwing himself upon the back of the poor mare and rides hard.

-;

Sansa bursts into tears when he catches up with them. The girls leap off of their horses and run to him, Robert commanding the brigade to stop, to rest. They were a safe enough distance from what was left of Winterfell so that they could just _breathe._ The wolves scamper over to press their noses to his hands as he slides off of the mare, the horse practically collapsing from exhaustion. A squire darts over to take the mare and lead it away as he sinks to his knees. Nymeria nudges his leg and then he sees the blood still dripping down from his knee.

“Daddy!” Sansa hugs him a little too roughly, apologizing when he grunts in pain.

“Mother?” Arya asks, falling silent after he shakes his head.

“I tried, my girls. I tried.”

“You heroic son of a bitch,” Robert chuckles without a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Come, let’s look at your leg. We’re going to Kings Landing. You’ll be safe there.”

Ned blinked through the haze of pain, opening his mouth to reject because _no._ If there is a war coming in the South, that is the last place where they will be safe. The words never leave his lips as only darkness welcomes him.

-;

The fevers start on the fifth day of traveling. The girls scamper out into the woods to search for any herbs that could help bring the swelling in his leg down but nothing helps. He tries so hard to tell them, but all that leaves his mouth are moans of pain. He’s about ready to scream for them to cut his damn leg right off, he cannot handle the burning anymore. He knows he cries out for Catelyn, for his sons, and for his daughters. He knows that his time is short.

And the end comes.

The end always comes.

He’s so cold. His hands tremble in his girls’ grips and the wolves lay across him, giving him as much warmth as they can. “Daddy, _please...”_ Arya begs. “Please don’t leave us.”

Lady moans woefully and he tries to send the great beast a reassuring smile. “Take care of them?”

Nymeria sniffed, to say _‘as if’._ Ned sighed, leaning back in his bed of flowers to look at the sky. “You need to take care of each other. Protect each other. The same blood flows through both your hearts.” His grip tightens around their hands. “You promise me that. _Promise me.”_

They both nod wordlessly and he lets his head rest again. The wolves’ warmth is fading and so is the feel of their hands on his. “Good. That’s good.”

Sansa’s voice sounds very far away. He lets his eyes fall closed, and he breathes out a long sigh.

The darkness fades.

_-;_

_“Ned? Neddy?”_

_He smiles, letting his father take his hand. “Is it time to train, Father?”_

_His father nods, fingers warm as they safely encase his own. “Yes. Lyanna and Brandon are waiting outside for us.”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

_They walk out a set of heavy doors, and then there’s nothing but light._

.

.

 


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages: Sansa is 18, Arya is 16.

**THEN**

.

.

Sansa had never danced so much in her short life.

Her feet are probably bloody in her shoes but she doesn’t care. There are warm arms around her, soft lips pressed to her temple as she moves and that’s all she cares does about. “You must be tired, lady wife?”

Sansa smiles into Jon’s chest, her own arms snaking around his waist. “Aye.” She lifts her chin, still smiling and she sees one flash across her lord husband’s face too. “I _am_ tired. I could sleep.”

“Your father did say the bedding would not happen,” Jon mentions.

“We _could_ leave and no one would care. The lords are already knee deep in their cups. Especially the king,” she adds with a wince. Her toes are still sore from the king’s big feet stomping on them. “Mother and Father are ready to turn in as well.”

“You’re going to talk about your parents on our wedding night?” Jon asks, an eyebrow raised.

Sansa chuckles and shakes her head, loosening her arms from his waist and taking his hand. “Let’s go.”

The walk up to the bridal chambers seems to carry on for _hours_ even though it’s just a few minutes. Sansa feels her heart thumping in her ears and she wonders if Jon can hear it. Her blood is still roaring as they walk through the heavy doors, and Jon bars them after to keep out any of those drunken fellows that may want to have a peek. Sansa turns to light the candles on the bureau, letting the low light fill the room with warmth.

“I’ll...uh – build a fire.” Sansa chuckles at Jon’s obvious nerves, sinking down onto the bed as she watches him. He carries the logs from the canister by the door over to the fireplace, the muscles in his arms quite prominent even through the thick sleeves of his wedding tunic. Her eyes trace the grey wolf embroidered on his shoulder, and she wonders what his skin feels like underneath the many layers.

_Goodness, you sound like a regular vixen, Sansa Stark._

She wasn’t a vixen. She was a married woman now. A lady of Winterfell. Her lord-husband was hers, and hers only.

When Jon approaches her, the fire is crackling merrily behind him. She shivers still, despite feeling quite warm and content and she realizes as he stands before her, that she’s _nervous._

Oh seven _hells._

“May I sit with you?”

She blinks in surprise but nods. “Jon, I’m your wife now. You don’t have to ask for permission to _sit_ with me.”

Jon chuckles. “I am aware, my love. But it still feels better to do so.”

My love. _My love._ Oh, what a beautiful sound those words made.

“You just...” her lips are still moving when Jon gently pecks at her mouth. She likes the kiss too, very much so. It’s sweet and chaste and – oh she’s yawning.

Jon laughs as she feels her cheeks flame in embarrassment. “Glad to know I suffice.”

She yawns again – _bugger –_ wiping a hand over her eyes. “I’m so _sorry._ Forgive me. I seem to be more tired than I thought.”

“You know,” his hand covers hers and she curls her thumb around his. “We don’t have to do this tonight. There’s always the morn.”

Sansa nods, smiling. “Yes there is.”

Jon returns to the fire, throwing another log on before a scratch comes at the door. She goes to check it and laughs too as she steps back, a very agitated Ghost and Lady trotting in. “I suppose it’s all right since –“ she shrugs and Jon does the same. He waits for her to climb on the bed first before joining her. The wolves jump up too, pretty much taking up the rest of the room. “It would be better if I just...” she lifts Jon’s arm up and wraps it around her shoulders, effectively sinking into his chest. “There. Much better.”

Jon’s lips press to her forehead. “Comfortable, milady?”

“Very much, my lord.” She smiles into his chest again, feeling happier than she had felt in ages. Jon kisses her temple again, and then her cheek. She leans her head back between her shoulders, letting his lips meet hers. She responds to the kiss without a yawn this time, feeling something stirring deep inside of her.

Oh. _Oh._

This could be what her mother meant when she had asked her, so many years ago, what it was like to feel the love of the song.

_They will sing songs of their love._

Not her and Joffrey though. Never her and Joffrey.

The kisses carry on but they do not go further than that, Lady effectively ending it by sneaking up between her and Jon like a small child, and flopping down with her head on the pillows. “Someone feels left out,” Jon laughs. He pats Lady on the head, making sure to brush his fingers over Ghost’s muzzle too. “Sleep, wife.”

“If you will too, husband.”

Wife. Husband.

She could get used to that.

She feels his lips press to the corner of her mouth, this final kiss the softest and most romantic she has ever felt. With that feeling, that feeling of being safe and loved, she slips into sleep, her new husband not far behind her.

-;

It could be a year later when she’s awoken by Lady’s soft growls.

Pulling herself from the warmth of sleep, Sansa wrenches her eyelids open to see Jon slipping off the bed and padding over to the window. Lady leaps off the bed too, Ghost on her heels. The wolves throw themselves against the door, biting and snarling and scratching. Sansa’s heartbeat quickens and she glances to Jon. “What is it?”

His face is set hard when he looks back at her. “Ironborn.”

Sansa throws the covers off of her legs and stands up too quickly, tripping over the hem of her wedding dress. “Ironborn? Theon! Have they come for Theon?”

Jon shakes his head, kneeling down to grab up his boots. She looks for her own that she had discarded before sleep, and finds them sticking out from under the bed. Jon slips to his knees and does them up for her, and Sansa realizes, it’s because her hands are trembling. He helps her up, his sword tucked in his belt and hand tight around hers. With a wordless nod, they sweep from the bridal chambers, the wolves to their hips, to greet the chaos.

The corridor is choked with people, servants and pages and handmaidens. Many people that Sansa hardly recognizes, ones that work clear on the other side of Winterfell or only in the stables. As she and Jon walk, the wolves still tucked on each side of them, the corridor begins to clear, people pushing and shoving to get out of their way. Sansa supposes they must be quite the sight, one very irritated bride in blue, flanked by her new husband who looked like the night, dressed all in black with the grey direwolf on his shoulder.

Jon keeps a tight hold on her hand as they make their way down the stone steps. The yelling gets louder and louder and then they see more of the chaos. She hears explosions rattling outside and Jon gives her a hand a tug, twirling her to face him. “You need to go to the Hall. Your family will be there –“

She ardently shakes her head. “No! No, _you’re_ my family. We have to stay together!”

He loosens his hold on her fingers, bringing his hands up to gently cup her face. “And together we shall. But not if we don’t have a home left.” She swallows hard on the tears stinging her eyes. “ _Jon.”_ He kisses her then, mouth soft against hers. “I will meet you back here.”

And then he’s gone. The last she sees of him is that direwolf and Ghost right at his heels as he runs.

-;

**NOW**

.

.

Sansa’s fingers tremble on the reins.

Arya watches her worriedly. “Are you all right?”

She decides not to lie and shakes her head. “No.” It doesn’t seem real to her. Just three weeks ago, she was in her home, safe and warm and loved and with her new husband and her family all around her.

Now...her home was gone. Her father was dead, died in her arms. Her mother and her brothers were probably dead too.

They drew nearer to the Capitol with each passing day. King Robert had sent a few ravens ahead and had assured her and Arya that rest and a good meal would be awaiting them when they arrived. He talked to her sometimes but never to Arya and Sansa suspected it was because of her sister’s shared looks with her late aunt.

Sudden fear clenched her heart.

Her eyes darted to Arya again. Her sister was watching Lady and Nymeria, the wolves moving far ahead, almost leading the brigade and Sansa half suspected that is exactly what their girls were doing. Arya’s face was captivated by the wolves, almost like she dreamed to join them in the wild and –

Her sister would not survive the Capitol.

She would not survive being caged up, within four walls.

Even at Winterfell, her Arya would run free, into the wood and one time Robb even found her at Wintertown when they had all thought she was in her chambers working on her studies. She would escape into the trees with Nymeria at her side and would come back muddied up with scratches on her hands, twigs and leaves in her hair, and the biggest smile on her face.

Sansa waits until they’ve stopped for rest and King Robert is nursing the last bit of his mead to tell Arya those words she had been dreading.

“You need to go.”

Arya drops the bit of food in her hand. It hits the ground and Nymeria swoops on it. Sansa briefly wonders if she even tasted whatever it was she ate. “W-what?”

Sansa glanced over Arya’s shoulder towards their traveling companions. Robert was complaining about something, something that Sansa’s ears couldn’t quite make out. That was good enough for her.

“As soon as we get to the outskirts of Kings Landing, you need to take Nymeria and Lady, and run. Go into Flea Bottom and escape out. I don’t care where you go. You need to go.”

“Sansa, what are you talking _about?”_ Arya’s staring at her, bewildered and a little hurt and Sansa’s heart aches. “Why do you want me to go?”

Tears spring to her eyes and she hates herself even more. “You won’t survive Kings Landing. It’s walled in, there is no way you would be able to get out. That life...it’s not yours. The lions, they eat the wolves.” Arya gasps and she plows on. Her fingers reach down to wrap around Arya’s wrist, a wee bit too tight. “I was trained for this life. I will get through for a while. You won’t. You need to take Nymeria and Lady and _go.”_

Understanding seeps into her sister’s face. “Sansa, _please –“_

She shakes her head, voice dropping. “You know it as well as I do. What’s awaiting in the Capitol, I can make it. I know I can. You will do better outside the walls. Go back North. I know the rest of our family survived. Find Mother and Robb. Rickon and Bran.” _Jon._ Even though she hadn’t said her lord-husband’s name, she could see the reflection of the mere thought in Arya’s eyes.

A noise of surprise leaves her throat when Arya roughly throws her arms around her neck, burying her face against her chin. Sansa grips her shoulders tight, breathing in her sister’s scent before gently pulling her away. “I’ll find you, sister. I promise.”

Tears glisten in Arya’s eyes. “Not if I find you first.”

Biting her lip, Sansa leans down to where Lady rests, a lock of hair gently brushing against her girl’s nose. Lady lifts her head in interest and she half wonders if the wolf already understood what she was about to tell her. Her fingers brush through her fur, and Lady sits up so she can wrap her arms around her neck. “How much of that did you hear?” She hears a grumble in the back of Lady’s throat. “You beautiful girl, I need you to do this for me. I need you to go with Arya and your sister, stay with them. Protect them. Can you do that?”

The look Lady gives her is so sad that she could cry. But she feels it, the response from deep within her girl’s soul.

_Of course._

She kisses Lady’s cheek, pulling away to look deep into her girl’s eyes. Their minds touch and she fights more tears when Lady’s sorrow seeps in. “We will see each other again, my girl. I will find you. And you will find me.”

There’s a small cry from Lady but the understanding and the resolution is there too.

Tomorrow they fly.

-;

The golden towers of Kings Landing stand high in the distance.

Arya’s eyes blaze into the back of her skull but Sansa doesn’t dare turn around. Lady and Nymeria trot on the left side of the carriage, where Arya sits, rather than Lady being beside her. She can see the tension in the wolves’ backs. She can practically taste it.

“We shall be in Kings Landing within the morn!”

And then... _now!_

Arya clicks her tongue and leaps from her horse with the grace of a bird, landing easily on Nymeria’s back. She claps her hand in Lady’s direction and with one last look at Sansa, Lady obeys the order and follows. “ _Arya!”_ She had told Arya she would shout after her, to make it look real, and ordered her to not look back.

Never look back.

“Arya!” she screams again but Arya and the wolves continue to run, wild and free.

King Robert doesn’t seem surprised as he urges his horse up. “Fyn, go after her.”

“No!” Robert and Fyn the page boy stare at her sudden outburst. “Don’t. Let her run.”

Fyn hesitates, casting a look at Arya’s shrinking form. The woods were about to swallow her up. “Milady, perhaps I should –“

“ _No.”_ This time it was Robert. Sansa opens her mouth but the king cuts her off. “The little lady Stark has always been the most like the wolves. She will survive out in the wood. But if she does show back up, I will make sure that they let her in immediately.”

Sansa licks her lips, turning her horse back. “Thank you, your grace. But I doubt that will be necessary.”

Robert casts her a questioning look but doesn’t push for more information, to her relief. He bows his head southward and the journey continues on.

Sansa forces herself not to look back towards the wood, towards where her last bit of family had disappeared. Probably forever.

-;

She must admit, the sea smells absolutely decadent.

As soon as they enter the gates and dismount their horses, pages and stewards rush up and start whisking people away. Robert’s already barking orders at someone, shouting for fresh wine and, “ _Where in the hells is Cersei?”_ A woman approaches Sansa, a pretty woman with chestnut curls and a slender body wrapped in pink and gold.

“Milady? My name is Shae.”

Sansa’s knees suddenly started to tremble. Shae seems to notice this and offers her her arm, which Sansa gladly takes. “Hello Shae.”

“I’ll be your handmaiden during your time here. Anything you need, ask me.” Sansa manages a nod, and she’s about ready to collapse. Shae signals to another woman, this one a bit shorter with blond braids and curves decked out in Lannister scarlet. “This is Tis, milady.”

“Hello Lady Stark. Come along, your chambers have already been prepared and there is a bath waiting for you. We can get you out of these tattered rags.”

No. _No._ These rags are her wedding gown, she wants to say. These rags she so painstakingly stitched and weaved together in the Stark greys and winter blues. These rags that they were going to cut off of her and toss in the fire, and that would be the last thing she had left.

The tears are building and building fast as the two women lead her down a long yellow corridor towards a set of double doors. They ease her through and begin pulling her ruined wedding dress from her body with the greatest of care and that’s when the tears finally start to escape. Shae and Tis exchange knowing looks that they think she doesn’t see but she does.

“C’mon, milady,” Shae whispers gently in her ear. She nods to Tis, who plucks up what’s left of the gown from the floor and takes it away. “Would you like her to save a piece?”

Her lips wobble as she whispers, “Y-yes. Yes please.”

Tis nods. “Of course.”

Shae leads her behind a large ivory screen where an enormous tub waits, filled to the brim with steaming hot water. Several different perfumes tickle her nose as Shae helps her step in and ease down. Water seeps over the sides but neither of them care. Another handmaiden is there, one whose name that Sansa hasn’t caught yet and she drops long heavy clothes into the puddles of water to help seep it up.

“There’s a brush here as well as a wedge of soap. Tis and I will be right outside so you can call when you’re ready to get out, okay milady?”

Sansa nods, thanking her softly and waiting until the three women have left to let that sob that had been building in her throat since Arya had disappeared into the woods finally break over her lips. Another one follows, and then another one and oh gods will it ever stop?

She supposes she should be grateful that she’s here in the Capitol, surrounded by all these riches and plenty to eat and beautiful dresses to wear. _Hmmph, the old Sansa would have loved all of this._

But no. No.

Right now she wishes she had escaped on Lady’s back and fled right into the woods with her sister. Maybe the wild would have been enough for her.

Her home is gone. _Gone._

Her father dead. Dead in her arms surrounded by a rainbow of flowers. Her siblings probably dead, Arya was gods knew where and Jon...

The next sob is not a sob, but a scream.

She’s still screaming when the handmaidens come running.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins. This hurt writing. 
> 
> So for anyone that doesn't understand, Sansa sent Arya away because she knew that Arya wouldn't be able to be contained at Kings Landing and the wolves would also not survive. She's effectively saving Lady's life this way as well as setting Arya on the course to meet up with Gendry (and STAY with Gendry *cough cough*) as well as Lady going on her own journey...North. To find her brother Ghost and a very stubborn Snow. *COUGH COUGH COUGH* 
> 
> Ps. More of who exactly attacked Winterfell will be explained in the following chapters. Just hang in there. Thank you! 
> 
> Haha I hope you liked everything so far. Jon's POV next and we will see what's up with him! Reviews help keep this story going, I have so much to tell all of you and I cannot wait to share it. Thanks!


	3. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, canon is not your friend here.

.

.

He shouts her name as loud as he can, but in the chaos, he might as well have whispered.

His throat is hoarse from the constant shouting as he searches, searches for his wife. Dead lay littered around, some with the Stark wolf on their chests and some with the Ironborn kraken. And then he saw bits of the flayed man and knew that they were dealing with a much bigger problem.

He knew some of the faces as they gazed up at him, eyes opaque and unseeing. His stomach rolls over when he comes across Stevyn, the kind stable boy that always prepared his horse whenever he was ready to leave for whatever errand his uncle sent him on. Stevyn’s brown eyes are wide and unseeing and Jon leans down to close them with two fingers. “Be at peace.”

As he turns around, his hand on his sword, he runs smack into another body. Jon’s eyes open wide as he takes in the terrified face and it’s all he can do not to scream.

Theon gazes back for a moment, almost stupidly, before pushing him away and running off, disappearing into the flames. This time Jon does shout after him. “ _Theon!”_

“Let him go!”

Jon now gapes dumbly at his uncle. “Was he --?”

Benjen shakes his head. “They attacked on their own. The boy let them in.”

He grabs Jon by the shoulder and hauls him off before he can even utter a protest. They run into another group of fighting attackers, fighting them off themselves. Jon hesitates for a moment when he gets a look at the one with the flayed man on his chest – he’s a _boy._ He’s younger than Jon and –

Benjen runs him through with his sword, blood spattering backwards and a few droplets hitting Jon in the face. The older man snarls at him. “Do _not_ do that again!”

Jon growled under his breath, turning to head back into the Winterfell grounds. It took him a moment to realize that the fighting had drawn all the way to the gates, all the way to where safety lay.

He doesn’t make it very far.

Benjen snaps out a hand, wrapping it around Jon’s arm. He struggles against his uncle’s grip, desperate to get back, to find her – to find everyone else because they were his family – but Winterfell was burning, _burning._ Smoke traveled upwards from the roofs of the stables and the screams of the dying men echoed in his ears.

Another couple of men in red and white and black dart forward and he doesn’t even blink before slicing into them with his sword. “ _Sansa!”_

“Jon!”

His uncle is shouting at him but he picks up the pace, his boots sloshing in the muddy ground. “ _Sansa!”_ Where was she? He’d promised to find her, he couldn’t break that promise. “ _Sansa!”_

There’s another and then another, both falling down dead a second after, Jon stepping over their bodies. The fire is spreading from the stables, it’s heading for the castle and oh _gods,_ it’s already there. A few stable hands are trying to subdue it but he can hear shouts of others, telling them all that it’s useless, that it’s time to flee.

Maybe she got out. Maybe she found the rest of her family and they escaped together.

He could run. He _should_ run and save his own life. But what was life worth, without her in it?

He stands there like a fool, sword draped at his side. Rain begins to spatter from the sky but the fire still spreads.

He doesn’t even notice his uncle coming up behind him, the butt of his own sword aimed at the back of his head.

And then there’s nothing more.

-;

He awakes on a cart.

The first thing he does is roll over on his side and vomit his stomach contents over the side of the rapidly swaying cart. He’s still retching when he feels a gentle hand on his back, helping him sit up a little easier. “Here. Have a little water.”

Jon accepts the wineskin that is pressed against his fingers, taking a tentative sip. His head is pounding and he’s pretty sure he’s going to lose what’s left in his stomach again. “Wh-what happened?”

The boy who handed him the water gives him a sad smile. “We found you and your uncle about fifty miles back. You were out cold.”

“My...my uncle?” Jon’s gaze flits up to the front of the cart where he sees Benjen sitting. They’re not alone, he and this boy and his uncle. There’s another boy, and an older man seated beside his uncle. They all look alike but none of them are looking _at_ each other. The boys must be brothers and the man must be their father.  

The boy sticks his hand out. “I’m Sam. And that’s my brother Dickon.” He gestures towards the other boy, who barely dips his chin in acknowledge. “That up there is my father, Lord Randyl Tarly.”

Jon makes sure to accept the hand that Sam offers, his fingers trembling as they barely grasp the boy’s. “J-Jon.” He glances over Sam’s head and sees nothing but white snow. “Where are we?”

“About a day away from the Wall,” Dickon answers this time.

“Wh – the Wall?” Jon repeated, unsure if he had heard right. When Dickon nods, Jon feels his stomach turn over again.

Before he can open his mouth, his uncle speaks from the front of the cart. “I want to thank you boys and your father again for helping us. After our horses were taken by those wildlings, and my boy here getting hurt, I wasn’t sure if we were going to make it.”

“You’re lucky we found you,” Randyl says, keeping his back to them. “You would have died out here.”

Jon scratched at the back of his head and flinched. A light ache radiated across the back of his skull and when he pulled his hand away, he saw dried crimson blood flaked on his fingertips. His own.

“Right,” the boy, Sam, gestures at his head. “You had a pretty nasty bump when we found you. Luckily I had packed some medicinal herbs before we departed the Reach that helped. You seem to be doing much better.”

“Th-thanks.” Jon looked up at his uncle, his bloody fingers still stretched out in front of him. And that’s when it all comes crashing back.

Getting separated from his wife, the Ironborn, all of it. He still feels the splash of the Bolton boy’s blood on his face before the blow to the back of his head came. The blow...inflicted by...

His uncle is still not looking at him.

With a grunt, Jon sits up a little too fast. His vision swims in front of him and he waits until he’s not seeing three of Sam before he makes sure his sword is still attached to his belt and then leaps from the moving cart. He lands on all fours on the frigid rock and snow, gritting his teeth against the new pain that settles in.

_“Jon!”_

He doesn’t look back but he hears the thud of his uncle’s boots hitting the icy ground and old man Tarly’s shout of annoyance. _“We are not waiting for you!”_ Jon doubts Benjen cares. He isn’t moving very fast, his vision still fluttering in front of him and Benjen catches up with ease.

“Jon, stop!”

Jon flings off the hand he grabs his shoulder with. “You left them back there! You made me leave my _wife_ back there to die!”

Benjen shakes his head. “You need to listen to me –“

 _“No.”_ His voice comes out in a snarl and it makes even his uncle step back a little bit in surprise. “I will not listen to you! That was our _family_ back there and we just left them?! Winterfell –“

“Winterfell is gone!” Now that does it. Jon’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, like a dumb fish and Benjen plows on. “It was crumbling to the ground _,_ Jon. If you had gone back in there, you would have died.”

“So what!” he shouts. A painful grip encases his heart. “I could have died with her!”

Benjen hesitates before he says the next words, “She got out. I saw her.”

“Wh-what?”

“The King and my brother, they got her and Arya out. If they are safe, I do not know. But they got out. Lady Catelyn and the boys – again, that I do not know. I pray that they did.”

Sansa was alive. Sansa was _alive._

Jon’s arms slacken at his sides and he feels like he’s going to fall to his knees. His uncle grabs his elbows and it suddenly occurs to him that he had actually been getting ready to fall.

“I want you to listen to me, nephew. You will find her again. I swear to you. But right now, you need to let me protect you.”

“At the _Wall?”_ Jon bites out bitterly. He had heard stories. The Wall...was no place he wanted to go. Being a member of the Night’s Watch had been far down on the list of things he had wanted to do with his life. And now... _now..._ ”I cannot be with them. I’ve been wed.”

“But the Watch doesn’t know that,” Benjen reminds him gently. “They will know you as the bastard Snow. You are of the North and that is all that matters.”

He could be with the Night’s Watch now. He really could because he never got too...he never got to hold his wife the only way a husband can. But Jon doesn’t tell his uncle that.

Jon scowls at the ground, nodding towards the tracks of the now gone cart of Tarlys. “How did they find you?”

Benjen shrugs. “By sheer luck, I imagine. I’ve never been one to believe in fate, my boy.”

“I’ll have to swear an oath, uncle.” Jon bites back the bile in his throat. “I’ll never be able to leave.”

“No. I will take care of it.” Benjen’s grip tightens on his arms. “Jon. _Jon._ Look at me.” Jon begrudgingly does, his gaze flitting up to meet his uncle’s dark eyes. “I will take care of it,” he says again. “Do you trust me?”

Jon bit down hard on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. He draws a hand across his mouth, ignoring the new scarlet smear on his skin. “Aye.”

-;

Castle Black is not what he expected.

His uncle’s stories were never long. Jon had long expected that to be a member of the Night’s Watch, there was a level of secrecy that went along with it but had never thought to ask why. He hadn’t really wanted to know. But now, _now,_ he understood.

Jon could smell the Death in the air.

The grounds were long and wet with slushy snow. The castle wasn’t very large itself, perhaps a quarter of what Winterfell was. His uncle steered him further into the courtyard, up a rickety set of stairs to where a heavy wooden door lay. Benjen knocks once and a soft voice bids them entrance. Benjen pats his arm. “Wait here a moment.”

Jon nods, turning to lean his back against the wall and look out over the dreary in front of him. Several men move about, some carrying buckets, other with hunted game slung over their shoulders. Night is falling, and darkness is drifting in where he stands.

He hates it so very much.

A moment later, his uncle comes back out of the chamber, flicking his fingers in a motion for Jon to follow him. Once they are inside, the chamber is completely dark to Jon’s surprise, except for a small fire roaring in the corner of the room. A large man kneels in front of it, pushing another log into the ember. “Your uncle here tells me that you want to join the Night’s Watch.”

Benjen pushes him in the back and Jon nearly trips over his own feet. “Uh, yes, sir.”

The man gets to his feet and turns around, where Jon can actually get a good look at him in the dim light. “My name is Jeor Mormont. I am the 997th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Jon bows his head in respect he hopes he fakes effectively. “Sir.”

Jeor makes a noise of approval. “All right. If you are sure?”

Jon nods again. “I am, sir.”

“Stark, if you will consent as witness?” Benjen nods, moving backwards so he’s out of the way. Jeor unsheathes his sword and drives the tip into the floor. “Boy, repeat after me.”

Within a few moments, Jon feels the oath of the Night’s Watch tripping off of his lips.

_“Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my new life. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s watch, for this night, and all the nights to come.”_

Sick rises in his stomach again. Jon swallows it back down and lifts his gaze to meet his uncle’s, but his uncle is staring into the depths of the fire. “I just swore in another member. He should be down in the Sept meeting with Maester Aemon. If you would like to go and find him, he can show you where you will sleep.”

Jon bows his head. “Th-thank you sir.”

Jeor bids for him to leave and he does. When he gets outside, he suddenly notices his knees are trembling and he stays at the top of the steps for a moment, hoping he doesn’t fall straight down to the ground.

_“I owe you.”_

Jon freezes, listening hard over the work of the men two floors below.

Jeor’s gruff voice answers his uncle’s. “ _You do. But...I hope you find your family. When you come for the boy, come in the night, do you understand?”_

_“Aye.”_

_“Good luck, Stark.”_

Jon hears his uncle’s heavy footsteps and quickly jogs down the stairs. Once his feet meet the slick ground, he gathers his bearings and attempts to walk in a straight line and not look like a drunken imbecile deep in his cups.

He wonders what the actual words of the Oath are. Because that Oath he took back there was most certainly not the real one.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! What a rush, huh? So Jeor gave Jon the Oath but there was some changes to it, so it's not quite legally binding. Hint hint. :D What exactly is Benjen planning? Does he truly believe Arya and Sansa are alive or did he just get really lucky there? 
> 
> ps. I also know Ghost is MIA. Jon hasn't realized that due to the stress and trauma. 
> 
> Make sure you review review review! Thank you!


	4. Sansa

.

.

The halls of Kings Landing are like a cage.

Sansa supposes that the younger version of herself would have been enthralled with all of this. Enthralled by the magnificent golden turrets, the beautiful banners on the walls, the lovely queen that comes to visit her on the second day...

But now, _now,_ she finds herself repulsed by it all.  

Cersei Lannister is quite the woman. When she first walks into Sansa’s chambers, Sansa is immediately tongue tied. When she goes to bow, her toes get caught on the hem of the immensely long violet gown Shae and Tis had stuffed her into, and to her horror, she finds herself plummeting face first towards the marbled floor.

An arm snaps out and catches her before she can make contact and when she looks up, the queen is smiling gently on her. “Y-Your Grace, I am so s-sorry.”

Cersei waves off her apology, steering her over to the sitting area where her breakfast still lay untouched. “Come sit. Try to eat something. Shae tells me you refused your supper too.”

Sansa manages a nod and allows the queen to lightly push her into a chair. She smoothes her hands over her skirts, her touch feather light. Cersei picks up one of the oat cakes and spreads a generous amount of strawberry preserves on it before popping a large bite into her mouth. Sansa tries not to wrinkle her nose because the thought of that taste makes her teeth ache.

“So,” the queen begins through the mouthful of food. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

Sansa says nothing, only inclining her head a little bit. The mere thought of everything that had passed was like a dagger sliding between her shoulder blades and slowly turning to the right. She had no desire to think of it but then again, she thought about it every minute of every hour.

“The king tells me that you are to stay here until we find out what happened to your mother. And, if the worst happens, we shall find you a husband.”

That brings Sansa’s gaze up. “But, uh, your Grace...”

“Of course we will give you time to grieve,” Cersei interrupted, stunning Sansa back into silence.

It doesn’t last long, that shock. And then Sansa’s mind begins working a hundred miles a minute again.

Jon’s not dead. She knows that. She can feel it.

Sansa is not exactly sure when she fell in love with Jon. Perhaps when he had placed Lady in her arms for the first time. Perhaps when he had loudly proclaimed in her father’s solar that she deserved someone better than him. Perhaps it had been when he had held her so softly before their lives were completely destroyed. Perhaps, perhaps, _perhaps..._

Her mother had warned her about this years ago, from the moment her thirteen year old self had first laid eyes on the beautiful lion that was Prince Joffery. The Lannisters had a den that they protected, and if anyone ventured too far inside, they would be eaten alive. Her mother’s warning had been disregarded then but now, _now..._

Cersei’s watching her carefully, one golden brow arched. Sansa quickly rearranges her face in what she hopes is a convincing smile of gratitude. “Whatever you decide, your Grace.”

-;

Once the queen leaves her be, Sansa eats her breakfast. When the first bite of buttered bread settles on her tongue, it suddenly occurs to Sansa just how hungry she is and she engorges herself on the rest within a few minutes time.

Shae comes in as Sansa is finishing the rest of her tea, eyes lighting up at the sight of the empty platter. “Milady, you look well!”

Sansa smiles, grateful for the friendly face. “I do feel slightly better, thank you.”

Shae reaches out her hand and Sansa takes it. “Come. They are waiting for you.”

“Waiting...who?”

“The king.” Before Sansa can utter another word, the brunette gives her hand a swift tug and they are off. “The king wants to give you his best wishes and the blessing on your new life here. And then you will join the princess while she breaks her fast.”

“The princess Myrcella has not risen yet?” Sansa asks in surprise. At Winterfell, they were always up with the sun and the sun was now nearly at it’s highest point in the sky.

“She is the first to rise before her brothers. Joffrey is the last and usually breaks his fast while still in his chambers. He then joins the queen and his siblings for the midday meal.”

“How has he been?” Sansa asks. She hesitates, choosing her next words carefully. “Has he become...?”

Shae seemed to understand and the young woman shook her head as she said, “...more gentle? No, milady.”

Sansa ignored the feeling of her breakfast rolling around in her stomach and found herself clinging a bit more tightly onto Shae’s arm as they walked.

As they got closer to the throne room, Sansa noticed that the corridors were darkening, losing their magnificent luster of beauty. Gone were the Baratheon and Lannister banners, replaced large structures of armor along the walls. The light had gone away too, with just a few lit candles lighting their pathway.

They are greeted at the entrance way by a maid, who enters the throne room to announce them.

“How are you feeling this morning, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa stared wordlessly at the king for a full ten seconds before finding her voice. “Uh, tired, your grace. But better.”

Robert nods in understanding, eyes darting to where Cersei stands beside him. “You’ve had a very trying couple of days. I wanted to inform you in person that we’ve sent a band of troops North this morning.”

“You have?” Sansa asks, her heart beginning to race.

Robert gives her a fond smile. “Aye. But I cannot promise anything.”

Sansa nods. This was better than nothing. A small flicker of hope perhaps, rather than being completely caged within these walls and pretending like it didn’t happen.

She thinks of Arya as Shae leads her out to the garden. A table is set out there, covered in quite the array of food. Noting the high walls surrounding them, Sansa knows that she made the right decision telling Arya to run.

Shae sits her down and disappears with a curtsy, returning less than a minute later with a young woman on her arm, wrapped in pink silks. Princess Myrcella.

Sansa rose to her feet to bow before the young princess but the other girl quickly stopped her. “Please, none of that, okay?” Sansa blinked in surprise but nodded, letting the girl gently push her back into her seat before sitting down herself. “I was told about what happened to your home. I am truly sorry.”

Sansa felt her chest tighten but for the first time since she had gotten here and received all of the sympathies, this one felt real. More real than anything anyone else had given her. She gently pats Myrcella’s hand and before the princess can open her mouth again, Sansa says, “Your father told me that you are interested in learning how to sew.”

Myrcella’s face lights up and she nods quickly. “Yes! Oh yes I certainly am. I, uh, I have been recently betrothed and –“ she blushes and Sansa’s mind immediately floats to Arya again. She isn’t exactly sure why, Myrcella doesn’t look a thing like her sister but – “ – and Mother has insisted on having a gown of the best silks made for me for my wedding but I would like too possibly –“ she breaks off and Sansa waits patiently. “I want to add my own touch to the dress.”

“What kind of touch were you thinking of?” Sansa asks.

“Um...I’m not sure,” Myrcella admits bashfully. “I’m to marry Lord Dickon Tarly and I would like for there to be something for him? Perhaps? I’m sorry.”

Sansa smiles, settling back in her seat. “Perhaps you could add some bits of green to the skirts of your wedding dress? Possibly embroider his house sigil into the folds?”

Myrcella beams. “I love that idea!” Sansa found herself wondering what else this girl had to look forward too around here. “You will show me?”

Sansa nods. “Aye. I shall as soon as you are done with your meal. That is, if you would like?”

She has never seen anyone eat so fast.

-;

The king is not around much, often off on his hunting trips. Sansa notes that the queen seems to be in a much better mood when he’s gone, but to her horror, the prince is too.

Joffrey is just the way Sansa remembers him. He comes to the breakfast table while she and Myrcella are talking and takes the cup right out of Myrcella’s hand, giving her the meanest look in response when she opens her mouth to protest. Sansa fights back the urge to get up and kick him right in the place between his legs, knowing that her sister wouldn’t have been able to control herself if she were here.

She waits for word of the North, word that does not seem to want to come. An unpleasant thought drops into her mind about the possibility that the king never sent the troops. Or maybe the queen had stopped them. Sansa didn’t know how much power Cersei was able to wield against her husband but she supposed that it was a lot.

That word does eventually come. And then Sansa wishes it never had.

-;

Myrcella finds her in her chambers a few hours later, carrying armfuls of soft brightly colored fabrics, piles of golds and greens.

Sansa barely moves from the edge of her bed to acknowledge the younger girl. Myrcella doesn’t pay no mind, plopping right down beside her and pulling out the latest swatch they had been working on. The fabric in her hands holds the barely there sigil of the Lannister house, the beginnings of the head of a lion with ruby eyes. Myrcella had wanted to make that as a gift for her mother, something that Cersei could carry with her after Myrcella had went to Horn Hill to ward before her wedding.

“What is it, Sansa? A double cross stitch, correct?”

Sansa isn’t sure why those words wake her, but they do. “Yes, double cross, followed by a single st-stitch.” She turns her head to watch the other girl work and that’s enough for what seems like an eternity. Just the two of them sitting there together, Myrcella’s warmth pressed up against her side.

A lifetime later, Sansa feels her lips moving. “It was beautiful that night. The sky was filled with stars...” Myrcella shifts, the sewing forgotten in her lap. “...my mother had done my hair up with several of the Northern braids. I felt...so happy. Not about the f-fact I was having that sp-special wedding that I had always dreamed of, but because of who I was going to be with.”

“Jon?” Myrcella asks.

Sansa nods. “He was good. And gentle. And strong. And I was so excited because someone like him was who I had dreamed off since I was small.” Myrcella’s hand slides over to cover hers. A tear leaks out of the corner of her eye, splashing down her cheek. “I had my family. My knight in shining armor. Everything was _good._ It was _good,_ Myrcella. None of this was supposed to happen.” A sob cracks her throat. “Jon and I were supposed to spend the rest of our lives together. My brother was supposed to be the Lord of Winterfell, my parents were supposed to have many, many grandchildren.” More tears spill from her eyes, and she wipes at them with her free hand, not noticing at first when Myrcella gently tugs on her arm and pulls her into her arms.

Myrcella tucks her chin against Sansa’s neck, her fingers gently kneading against her shoulders as she murmurs soothing words of nonsense. Sansa lets her tears flow, easing more into the other girl’s soft embrace.

-;

The shouting wakes her.

Sansa isn’t too sure why that pulls her out of bed. Heading towards horrible noises like that had never been something she wanted to do, but something deep inside of her is telling her to go.

The lit candles in the corridors light her way. Sansa moves slowly, the sounds of the shouts getting louder. And then to her horror, they turn to screams. The queen is _screaming._

Her pace hurries. This is a time in her weeks here that she really wishes she had Lady by her side.

When she goes to round the corner, the queen’s voice stops her. Sansa plasters herself to the wall and takes a measured peek to see King Robert and Cersei standing about twenty feet away, both red faced as they continued to yell and curse at each other. The king and queen fighting was common, from what Sansa was told, but no one had suggested to her that it would escalate to this.

 _“I should wear the armor! And you the gown –_ “ Cersei’s voice is cut off in a groan as Robert slaps her across the face, hard enough to knock her into the opposite wall. Sansa swallows a gasp as the other woman rights herself quickly, her bruised face sinking into a horrible sneer. “I will wear this as a badge of honor.”

Robert’s voice is low and Sansa immediately hates him. “Wear it in silence or I will honor you again.”

Before Sansa even has a chance to move, Cersei is around the corner. The two women stare at each other, Sansa’s heart thumping wildly in her throat. She prepares to find some excuse, anything at all, but then Cersei turns away from her and sweeps down the corridor, a blaze of golden hair and blood red skirts.

-;

She expects to be thrown from the highest tower of Kings Landing that following morning.

But to her surprise, Sansa is introduced to the Lannister brothers instead.

Myrcella squeals in delight at the sight of her uncle, running into his arms. “Uncle!”

Tyrion laughs, gently patting her shoulder. “You look beautiful, dear niece.”

Myrcella straightens, a blush to her cheeks. “Thank you uncle. You look well.”

“I feel well,” Tyrion says, gesturing towards the table so they can sit. “The journey was fair, not much weather to run into.”

“Did you bring back that special dagger Tommen asked for?” Myrcella asked. Tyrion nods, gesturing to the satin case he had discarded on the floor when Myrcella had tackled him. “Oh! Sansa, I am so sorry.” Sansa smiles, rising from her seat to curtsy before the Lannister lord. Tyrion waves away her gesture and bows instead. “Uncle, this is Lady Sansa Stark. Sansa, this is my uncle Tyrion. He’s been away on one of his magnificent adventures.”

Sansa had heard the murmurs of the Lannister ‘adventures’ back in Winterfell. She pastes on a smile for him and dips her chin again. “Lovely to meet you, my lord.”

“And I you, my lady,” Tyrion tells her and when she looks up, she sees no trace of contempt in his eyes. “I was informed about your family when I arrived her. I am terribly sorry.”

That familiar slice of pain slides across Sansa’s chest. “Thank you very much.”

Thankfully, Myrcella jumps in. “Uh, uncle, would you care to join us for breakfast? Tommen should be awake soon, he will be delighted to see you. And what of uncle Jaime? Is he here too?”

“Aye he is,” comes a voice from the edge of the garden. Myrcella squeals in happiness and when Sansa looks up, she sees the handsome knight from her childhood dreams walking towards them.

Ser Jaime Lannister is what his younger brother is not. While Tyrion stands highest to her shoulder, Jaime towers over her. His hair reaches his shoulders in soft golden waves and he flashes her a smile that probably has had a thousand princesses and ladies weeping. One thing that Sansa notes that all three siblings share is the same emerald green eyes, although each set shares different stories and emotions.

Jaime embraces Myrcella like a father would, gently stroking her hair back from her face to kiss her tenderly on the forehead and whisper words that Sansa cannot hear. She tears her eyes away from them to turn back to Lord Tyrion and to her surprise, he’s holding out a glass of morning wine. “Thank you, my lord.”

Tyrion smiles and motions for her to sit again. Sansa isn’t too sure when she rose from the table. “I hope you don’t mind that I help myself. I haven’t had a thing to eat since yesterday morning.”

“Oh! Not at all,” Sansa picks up a strawberry and pops it into her mouth. Strawberries were rare in the North and the last one she had eaten had been during one of the rare trips to the Riverrun when her grandfather would get a shipment in.

“Are they good?” Tyrion asks her so suddenly that she promptly chokes.

Sansa coughs into a handkerchief, wiping at her streaming eyes as Tyrion looks on apologetically. “In answer to your question, my lord, aye they are good.” She sees a twinkle of mirth in his eye and cannot help but laugh herself. “Apologies, my lord.”

Tyrion waves away her words, opening his mouth to say something else, only to be interrupted by Myrcella’s call. “Sansa, come meet my uncle Jaime!” Tyrion gets to his feet as Sansa rises, offering her his arm to lead her over to where Jaime and Myrcella stand. Sansa gladly rests her hand on his shoulder so she didn’t have to stoop and they walk over together.

Jaime Lannister greets them cordially, warmth in his eyes only for Tyrion. He kisses her hand, lips cool against her skin, just like the frosty emerald of his eyes. His face doesn’t carry the same gentleness that Myrcella’s does and it occurs to her just how much Myrcella looks like him.

The queen appears then, and both of her brothers bow to her. Sansa notes the alarm in their faces when they see the badly covered up bruise on her cheek but Myrcella only looks away in sorrow.

This was a usual occurrence, Sansa notes. The Lannister brothers are just not here enough to really take note of it. And Cersei would not be telling them.

Cersei refuses to look her way all through the meal, answering her brothers’ questions with short and gruff replies and only managing one smile for Myrcella. Tommen joins them before the high noon hour and immediately begins to pester his uncles for tales of their travels, taking no notice of the bruises on his mother’s face.

But Sansa does.

-;

“There! You have it!”

Myrcella laughs, examining her work. The ruby stitching is barely visible against the emerald silk, which was what the initial goal was when they began this project. “I never thought I’d do it, but I did it.”

Sansa chuckles, smiling at Myrcella fondly. In the months since she had arrived here, she was so glad that she found one bit of comfort. One bit of peace in this lovely girl.

“Tell me about him. Your husband.”

Sansa’s head shoots up and she gazes at Myrcella for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. “What would you like to know?”

“What does he look like? Was he...was he kind?” The younger girl bites her lip. “I hope Lord Tarly is.”

Sansa smiles and reaches over to gently pat her hand. “Well, he’s not very tall. Actually I’m taller than him.” Myrcella laughs. “Honestly, I stand about an inch higher than he does. And...yes he is kind. So kind. When my father arranged the marriage he fought it not because he didn’t care for me, but because he thought I deserved someone better. And the truth was, there was no one better.”

Myrcella smiles, a dreamy look crossing her face. “I hope Lord Tarly is.”

Sansa smiles too, but it fades quickly as she focuses back on the sewing. "You know, Myrcella, you do not have to rush into a marriage to Lord Tarly. Get to know him first, make sure that he treats you honorably. You deserve that." Her mind flickers to what she had witnessed between Cersei and Robert, and she wonders...but doesn't dare bring it up. "You deserve someone brave and gentle and strong. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

Myrcella's eyes are wide when she looks up but she quickly looks away. "Thank you, Sansa." 

As Sansa’s fingers work over the fabric, the door to her chambers opens and in walks Shae, followed by Myrcella’s handmaiden Kila. Myrcella lowers her sewing. “Kila, I told you I was going to be here for a while.”

“I know that, princess, but I’m here to collect you. Come with me. You must return to your chambers now.”

“But –“

“Now, princess.”

With a frown, Myrcella gathers up her sewing with Sansa’s help and sweeps from the chambers, Kila on her heels. “What was that?” Sansa asks Shae.

The dark haired woman gives her a sympathetic smile. “I’m so sorry about this, milady. The queen has ordered that you refrain from being near the princess from now on.”

What fabric Sansa has left in her lap slides to the floor as she stands. “...did she tell you why?”

Shae shakes her head. “No she did not. The only thing she told was what I just told you, sweetling.”

Sansa swallows hard at the lump rising in her throat. She will not cry, not now. Not even later when she’s alone again.

Her skin’s cold. Even in the heat of Kings Landing, she feels...cold.

-;

In the weeks that follow, Sansa makes sure to stay from Myrcella. Her heart breaks the first time she sees the young princess in the corridors, and it's all she can do to force herself to turn away and pretend not to hear the girl's calls. Each sad chant of her name cuts right into her chest.

She misses Arya more than ever. Sansa almost laughs at the thought. Five years ago she and her sister could barely be in the same room together without fighting and _now_ , Arya was the person that Sansa desired to see the most.

“You will have to come to the meal this evening. A small feast is being planned.”

“A feast? For who?”

“The King’s council is due to meet tomorrow morning and they arrive tonight. It is best that you meet them,” Shae explains. “The queen sent this for you to wear.”

Sansa’s attention is drawn to the bed where an absolutely beautiful gown of scarlet silk is laid out. “Is that...?”

“The queen’s day gown, yes. She would be honored for you to wear it.”

The same gown that Cersei had been wearing the morning they first met.

As Sansa dresses, Shae carefully slides pins into the fabric so that the skirt doesn't drag on the ground. She then twists Sansa’s hair back into the Lannister braids, letting a few tendrils of hair fall elegantly around her face.

“My lady you look lovely.”

Sansa sighs as she helps place the golden belt around her waist, carefully fastening it. “Thanks.” She reaches into the front drawer of her vanity and pulls out the blue swatch from her wedding dress, tucking into the front folds of her gown right now. With a final glance in the mirror, Sansa swallowed back the bile in her throat. Her fingers tighten around the swatch, the fabric becoming a mere anchor to everything she held dear.

She didn't look like a Stark anymore. She looked like a Lannister.

-;

“Presenting Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

The new council are there at the grand table, waiting for everyone else. One man leaps to his feet when she enters and he bows to her.

Her heart stops when she sees his face.

“Y-You’re –“

Petyr Baelish smiles pleasantly at her, taking the hand at her side and pressing his cold lips to it. “Very lovely to see you again, Lady Sansa. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances of course.”

Sansa nodded numbly and allowed herself to be led into a seat. Petyr Baelish. Her mother’s childhood friend...turned tormentor. Why would he be here of all places? His last visit North had resulted in a horrifying act and his banishment. Her father had wanted to take his head but only relented when her mother had asked him not too. Sansa had grown to loathe the very sight of the man and tonight was no exception.

The queen arrives first, the bruises on her face completely gone now. When Robert arrives, they all bow one at a time, which is immediately waved away by the king.

 _Now what?_ Sansa wonders as the meal begins. Polite small talk is made and the king drinks his weight in wine. Sansa manages to force down a piece of buttered bread and a few small bites of carrot, her stomach fighting her at every bite. Baelish’s eyes burn into the side of her head. She’s about to say something when another voice breaks the dim.

“Tell me Lord Baelish, what of your travels here?” Sansa’s head shoots up and to her shock, Tyrion is giving her the smallest knowing look. She manages a smile of gratitude as he pulls Baelish into a conversation and his attention away from her.

The meal ends not long after and once she is excused by the king, Sansa flees to her chambers and barricades the door as best she can.

She cannot. She _will not_ let her mother’s old tormentor sink his claws into her. She’d sooner die.

She’s not like Arya or Robb. She cannot use her fists or a sword.

But by the grace of the gods, she will fight. She will not die here in Kings Landing. She swore an oath to find Arya, she will find her family. Her husband...her Jon.

. .

.

.

[Follow me here on tumblr. ](https://sansastarkii.tumblr.com/)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first, my deepest apologies for the long ass wait. School has been beating my ass but today was my math final (if I passed it I will faint) and Thursday is my last final so right now some FREEDOM. Do leave reviews, I am so excited for this big giant fix it. It’s gonna be glorious. (Not to toot my own horn but TOOT TOOT!) 
> 
> PS. Myrcella is NOT going to die. She's got a huge role to play and I am SOOOOOOO excited for that. :D


	5. Arya, Gendry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Finale tonight. Wow.

**ARYA**

.

.

It takes her nearly a week to get out of the main city. Arya hadn’t realized how close they were to the Red Keep until she saw its high turrets of gold in the distance.

Lady and Nymeria keep her warm through the nights and remain hidden at her command when she travels inward to steal supplies. If her mother could see her now, she would be having an absolute conniption.

She dreams every night of the blood on the snow of Winterfell. Her father’s fever stricken face and the gasps he made before they heard the rattle of death in his chest. Nymeria licks her face until she wakes from those dreams and she continues to scream into her fur.

Flea Bottom is just as disgusting as the stories she had heard. Arya is tempted to turn tail and run but something tells her not too. Commanding Lady and Nymeria to wait in the nearby brush outside the gates, Arya journeys inward, sidestepping several filthy beggars that would pull at her dirty pant legs. Arya fingers Needle’s hilt, venturing further in to the hustle and bustle of the broken city.

The shouts of passerby distracts her and suddenly, she’s running smack into a wall of solid muscle and finds herself plummeting towards the ground.

Only, she doesn’t quite get there. A hand snaps out and wraps around her wrist, pulling her back to her feet. Looking up, Arya thinks she’s gazing at a much younger version of Robert Baratheon. But that’s not possible. It can’t be possible.

“Are you all right?”

Arya lightly tugs her hand away, keeping her eyes on the ground. She had hacked her long braid off nearly ten days ago after a shop owner she had stolen bread from had grabbed it and nearly pulled all the hair out of her head in his desperation to get his bread back. Her clothes were torn and tattered, the knees of her pants completely torn out. She didn’t look like any lady, just an ordinary beggar. Her small size definitely made her seem younger than she was too.

“’m fine, sorry.” Arya tries to run then but the boy grabs her again.

“Why were you --?” Whatever he tries to say is cut off by Arya digging her fist deep into his gut. The surprise of the attack is enough for him to loosen his grip on her arm and she bolts.

He follows, shouting after her but she quickly loses him in the congested throng of people. She keeps Needle tight against her side as she runs, throwing herself deep into the brush and Nymeria and Lady catch her, Nymeria nudging her onto her back. Arya leans forward and whisper, “Go like the wind, girl.”

And so they do.

They run for so long Arya nearly falls asleep on Nymeria’s back. Lady runs slightly ahead of them, always showing dominance over her younger sister. Only when do the woods become unfamiliar do they stop. Lady skids to a halt first, turning with simple ease to look at her and Nymeria. “That was a close one.” Arya slides off of Nymeria’s back and then nearly crumbles to the forest floor. Her knees are trembling quite badly and she has to keep one hand on Nymeria’s shoulders to steady herself.  

Lady huffs and trots off but Arya doesn’t worry. Sansa’s girl would always hunt first and most of the time would double her kill, bringing Arya back a couple of rabbits for her to skin and roast over a small fire.

Arya hates feeling this helpless, even with two wolves protecting her and Needle at her hip. Her family had always been her safety, her peace. And now that was all gone.

After collecting wood for a small fire, Lady returns with a rabbit in her teeth. Arya takes the animal with thanks and nods at Nymeria to join the hunt with Lady. They never go too far, so she doesn’t worry too much as she settles down to skin the rabbit. With Needle as her only instrument, she doesn’t do the best job and the poor thing is hacked into quarters when Lady and Nymeria return, their coats wet with blood. “Eat your fill?”

Nymeria sniffed and settled down to clean herself. Arya finishes cooking her rabbit and eats what her stomach will allow, hanging up the leftover strips of meat to dry. They can’t stay there too long, she knows that. They have to keep moving if they have any hope at all.  

She’s just so tired. Maybe she will rest a little while. Just for a little while. Maybe...

-;

Lady’s growling wakes her.

Arya sits up a little too quickly, brushing the sleep out of her eyes. It’s early morning, she can see the rays of golden sunlight breaking through the trees. Lady and Nymeria are on their feet, all the hair on their hips sticking straight up into the air. The wolves’ growls are soft enough that Arya can barely hear them as she gropes for Needle, the sword having slipped a little out of her grip in the night.

She sees the boy. He thinks he’s being quiet but truly far from it, lumbering through the trees like a bull in a pasture. Arya nearly smiles at his oblivious stupidity. And then he sees her.

That’s not part of the plan. He’s not supposed to see them.

Lady looks like she’s about to spring, to rip his throat out and Arya is tempted to let her. It would be so easy to let them go and let it be over with because it _was not_ _supposed to be like this._

A deep, dark rage had settled into the pit of her stomach since the moment her father had slipped away in her arms. When Winterfell had burned, it hadn’t really seemed real but now... _now_...

Nymeria snarled, her back legs bending as she prepared to spring. At that moment, as she stands there waiting to watch the bloody scene unfold, a deep horror sank into Arya’s stomach.

This wasn’t who she was.

This could never be who she was.

Arya whistled and Nymeria froze.

And then the boy sees them.

Arya does not waste any time and leaps like a jackrabbit, knocking the boy right on his arse in the dirt but she underestimates his strength and he easily throws her off, pinning her down. One nod from her and Nymeria jumps, knocking the boy off of her and clamping her teeth around his throat.

“ _Don’t,_ Nymeria,” Arya warns, grabbing Needle. The boy goes limp in Nymeria’s powerful jaws but his eyes are open and seeing, watching her carefully.

“Call your dog off,” the boy says around Nymeria’s teeth. “Please.”

“She’s not a dog. She’s a direwolf.”

.

**GENDRY**

.

Gendry flinched as the wolf’s jaws tightened around his throat. He had expected her teeth to sink right into his skin, to tear into his flesh and then it would be all over but that moment never comes.

That girl – he’s pretty sure she’s a girl – is watching him warily, her skinny sword aimed at his eyeball and another wolf flanking her. “Why are you following me?”

He truly wasn’t following her. Once Tobho had told him to pack what he could carry and to go, he had headed in the same direction as the urchin who looked like she truly belonged in Flea Bottom had gone.

And now he was here, about to be devoured by a wolf. Oh yes, his life was really turning out quite well.

“I have not been following you,” he manages to force out through gritted teeth. The wolf’s jaws tighten again and he hisses. “Would I have been making all that racket back there if I was?” He was never the subtle type, Tobho never ceased to remind him of that. He was all legs and arms and outside of the forge, he tripped over air.

The girl lowers her sword only about an inch, a thoughtful look crossing her dirt smeared face. “Nymeria.” He guesses that’s the wolf’s name because she releases his throat and he falls into the dirt with a _thump._ “What’s your name?”

Gendry rubs at his bruised neck and sits up. The girl isn’t stupid, he can tell as she doesn’t lower her sword and the wolf still towers over him, but no longer looking like she wants to turn him into her afternoon meal. The dried blood on her chest is a little unsettling though. “Gendry.”

That’s when the girl lowers her sword. He catches a glimpse of an etched wolf’s head when she returns it to the sheath on her hip. “Are you going to tell me yours?” She says nothing. “I gave you mine. I think it’s only polite you give me yours in return.”

“You’re lucky I’m letting you live after what you did back there. Stupid bull, lumbering around like a –“

He laughs. The girl does not feel threatening but the responding growl from her wolves does. She gives him another look through her greasy bangs, one that’s almost sad. “My name’s Arya.”

“Arya...?” He draws out the last syllable, waiting for a last name but she gives him none.

“Just Arya.” She whistles and Nymeria gives him one more warning look before turning towards her and to Gendry’s great surprise, she clampers onto the wolf’s back. She stops when he realizes he’s not following. “Which way are you heading?”

He raises a thoughtful brow. Tobho had told him to head North, to get as far away from Kings Landing as possible and no amount of pestering from Gendry could get the old man to tell him more. Gendry had just started walking when he left, and of course ended up here with a wolf’s teeth wrapped around his throat.

“Same place you’re heading. If you’ll have me.”

Arya narrowed her eyes and readjusted herself on Nymeria’s back, spinning her fur between her fingers before Nymeria trotted off. Lady didn’t bother looking at him, following the other two and he supposed that was a silent invitation to follow.

So he did.

.

**ARYA**

.

It wasn’t so bad having the bull around. He really was the loudest fellow ever, bumbling about through the trees with the grace of an old sow. Arya made him stay behind when she would go hunting with Lady so he wouldn’t scare off the prey. But to her delight, Gendry’s strengths also included making the bitterest squirrel meat taste absolutely amazing.  

They cannot take the Kingsroad. Being with the wolves out in the open was too dangerous, so through the woods they continue. It’s not a very comfortable scenario but inns are out of the question because she has no gold dragons and whatever money Gendry has on him she is not going to ask for.

He carries weapons in his pack, she sees them in there when they stop to rest for a little while. Two daggers come out, twins to each other, and to her surprise he hands one to her. The dagger is beautiful and made out of a sleek silver steel with a green and golden hilt. “Is this...?”

“Valyrian steel,” Gendry whispered even though the only souls around to hear them where Lady and Nymeria and the spirits of the forest. “Tobho had a small bit of it, came in from a great sword that was brought into the forge about three months ago. He told me to break it down so I made a smaller sword and two daggers from it.” He pulls the sword from his pack and Arya gazes at what’s left of Ice.

For some reason, she’s not angry as she stares at the remains of her father’s beloved sword. Gendry’s work is...incredible. He had treated the sword with great care and made good sturdy variations of the weapon, and to be honest, only Ned Stark could wield Ice. The sword had been enormous and she could never pick it up. Robb had tried one time and when he attempted to lift the thing over his head he had nearly torn his shoulder out.

“Are you sure you want to give this to me?” she had asked him as she traced the blade of the dagger with her fingertip. “You made these, they’re yours.” The words stung her tongue but it didn’t matter anymore.

Gendry nodded. “I’ve seen you hack away with Needle at those squirrels, I figure a small blade would work better.”

Arya chuckled and accepted the dagger, turning the instrument over in her hands. “Your work is very good.”

The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile and Arya was suddenly struck by how handsome he was. “Thank you.”

As they traveled northward, Gendry told her all about his life. About growing up as an apprentice to Tobho Mott, and becoming skilled with the fire. He had lost his mother at a very young age and his father was gone. Gendry guessed he was a nobleman that had laid with his mother once and then she never saw him again.

Arya couldn’t shake how much he reminded her of Robert Baratheon. The old drunk king had spent enough time in Winterfell for her to get a good gander of who he was and even though Gendry was much stronger and healthier than the king, he still made her think of him often. The eyes were different. The eyes, _Gendry’s eyes,_ they were kind. Compassionate and loving.

Eyes that were quite easy to get lost in.

.

**GENDRY**

.

Arya sure was a funny little thing.

Gendry wasn’t too sure why he stayed with this girl. She was almost...frightening to him. There was a darkness and a hatred within her that was aching to get out and Gendry didn’t want to be around when it finally clawed its way to the surface.

“Why are you here?” he asks her on their fifteenth day together. “Why are _they_ here?” Lady and Nymeria eyeball him with distrust but he doesn’t have much fear of the great beasts anymore. Arya’s bond with Nymeria is almost heartbreaking to watch and Lady just seems lost, like she is missing something of herself.

He expects another brush off as usual. The first time he had asked her what had led her here to the middle of absolutely nowhere, she had snapped at him so hard he hadn’t dared bring it up again. Perhaps he was being stupid now. Perhaps another snap will come, but it doesn’t.

Her voice is so quiet that Gendry has to strain to hear it. “My home was overrun by Ironborn and Bolton men on the night of my sister’s wedding. My sister and my father and I escaped and rode south but my father was injured. He died of infection on the journey.”

And then it all slides into place.

He had heard about Winterfell being attacked and that the king was in attendance at the wedding. News traveled fast in Westeros, especially in Kings Landing. Tobho had told him about the Warden of the North dying too, lost to a horrid infection from wounds received while defending his home and his children.

One of which is standing right in front of him.

When he opens his mouth, Arya shakes her head, but his mouth still works quicker than his brain does. “Where are you going then?”

“My father had many friends in the North. Many houses were loyal to him.”

“You’re going to try and get help through them? But what about your family? What about your sister?”

“She told me to go,” Arya said quietly and Lady made a soft noise. Gendry gazed at the grey wolf and understood. “I wouldn’t have survived in Kings Landing. She will. She’s stronger than anyone I know. I’m going to find help, and then I’m going back for her.”

Gendry lifted a brow, almost marveling at the bravery of this girl. He wishes he could be like that.

“I’d like to help,” he finds himself whispering. Arya tilts her chin in a challenging way and he smiles. “Whatever you need, I’ll help. If you’ll have me.”

She holds up the dagger with a smile. “You already did.” Arya nods at the sword. “Keep that. It’s a good fine blade.”

“When we find your family, I will return it to them,” he promises.

Arya touches his elbow and there’s a small prick of heat where her hand had been. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Nymeria trots over and suddenly bumps her head against his shoulder, almost knocking him into a tree. Arya laughs out loud, a magnificent sound that he’s longing to hear again and again. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He rubs at his bruised skin.

“A good thing. She doesn’t do that for just anyone,” Arya laughs. “You can touch her if you want. She won’t bite. Again.” Gendry eyed the enormous wolf for a moment and Arya sighed, grabbing his arm. “Oh for gods’ sake.” With a touch far gentler than he expected, she places his hand on Nymeria’s neck. The wolf’s fur is soft and sleek, and she holds his hand there for a moment before lifting it to do the same to Lady.

Lady leans into him more and he feels a smile start, gently carding his fingers through her fur. “Does she belong to your sister?”

Arya nods. “She misses her dearly.” _As do I._ She doesn’t have to say the words but he hears them anyway. “Could you...?”

 _Watch after her._ Gendry almost gasps and when Lady glances at him with those sad golden eyes he finds himself agreeing. _Yes, yes of course,_ he babbles over and over again and Arya punches his shoulder to get him to shut him up.

Maybe Tobho telling him to go was the best thing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so...ch-ch-CHANGES. Haha. But yeah, the daggers and the sword from Ice is gonna play a HUGE part for these two down the road so bare with me loves. Robert of course took Ice and had it sent out to be made into weapons but Tobho gave the weapons to Gendry so he could protect himself. 
> 
> Guys, PLEASE leave feedback. Even just a little heart emoji would make me happy. I've worked really hard on this beast and I would really appreciate the comments. Thank you!


	6. Sansa

 

.

.

Sansa’s there in the Great Hall when Robert’s broken and bleeding form is rushed by, the horn of the boar still sticking out of him.

“ _No, no, don’t remove it! He’ll bleed out all over the place!”_

Sansa picks up her skirts and follows, making sure to avoid slipping in the steady trail of blood that they’ve left dripping behind on the floor. The king is screaming in pain, shouting for wine, and calling everyone curses that Sansa hasn’t even heard of.

“I want that boar’s head!” Robert’s shouting as the healers carry him into a nearby chambers. There was no way they were going to be able to get him upstairs to his own.

Sansa grabs the arm of a handmaiden rushing in with clean linen. “What happened to the king?”

“A boar, milady. A boar gored him.”

“Someone send for the queen!” A maester hollers over Robert’s shouts.

Sansa manages to duck out of the way as more people rush in and out of the room. Robert’s still yelling but as each hour passes, he gets quieter and quieter. Sansa recognizes that quiet. It still haunts her in her dreams.

No one pays her any mind as long as she stays out of the way. Shae and Tis show up to try and coax her to leave and go back to her chambers but she doesn’t budge.

The queen shows up at the fifth hour, a dark dress of green covering her thin frame. Tommen and Joffrey are behind her and Sansa’s heart quickens at the sight of Myrcella trailing after them. The young princess is wrapped in light blue, her hair is fixed into a loose braid that cascades down her back like a lake of melted gold. A haggard, frightened expression stayed on the girl’s face as she was hustled into the room by her mother.

About thirty minutes later, Maester Qyburn appears. His coat is covered in drying blood and Sansa’s stomach turns at the sight of it. He turns to her, his eyes tired. “Milady, the king wishes to speak to you.”

Shae had stayed with her while Tis had gone to finish up her other work and Sansa feels the other woman’s form stiffen beside her. Sansa patted her hand, a soft comfort, before rising up to her feet and following Qyburn into the chambers.

A mess awaits her.

Sansa has to place a hand on the doorway to steady herself, and she nearly sways on her feet. To her surprise, Tommen comes to her side and offers her his hand, to which she gratefully takes.

The king lays in the small bed, his stomach wrapped in bandages that are already soaked through with blood. Blood coats the linens beneath him and stretches up his hands and chest. Cersei’s bloody too, a sticky red handprint wrapped around her wrist that she is now hastily trying to scrub off.

“I want –“ Robert gasps in pain. “I want – to sp-speak – to her – _alone.”_ When no one moves, he musters up a loud, “ _Now!”_

The people scatter, Cersei out the door first with Joffrey and Tommen following. Myrcella gazes at Robert another moment and somehow manages a nod that Sansa guesses is supposed to be reassuring. “Go on, girl.”

Myrcella nods and brushes past Sansa, her shoulder lightly bumping with hers. Sansa makes her way over to the seat beside the bed and sits down, bowing her head. She listens to the rattle in Robert’s chest and tries to breathe through her mouth, before the stench of death overwhelms her completely.

“I know what you’re – th-thinking of.”

Sansa lifts her gaze and Robert is watching her, his small eyes more clear than she had seen in a while. “Your grace?”

“Your father – he – he would kn-know what to say. What to d-do. Your father was always – r-right.”

Sansa nods, confused. “Most of the time, your grace.”

Robert chuckles weakly. “I wish – I wish I could h-have done more for him. He – he was a good man. I wanted to – I wanted to be like him.”

“Maybe you could have been,” Sansa replies softly. “If you didn’t beat your own wife.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees a flash of emerald green at the doorway and hears the rustle of fabric overwhelming the horrid shake of death. When she looks up, Cersei is no longer there but she can still hear the clack of her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Robert’s still watching her and to her surprise, he doesn’t look angry. “You’re right.”

Sansa sucks in a breath, trying her best to calm her pounding heart.

“I am n-not a good man. Never have been.” A far away look sinks into his eyes. “Your aunt – Lyanna – she was the cause of whatever good – goodness I had leaving m-me.”

Sansa feels her stomach tighten. Jon never talked about his mother, had never wanted too. As she glances down at the bloody bed, she’s suddenly aware of the horrible irony. “That’s n-not an excuse, your grace.”

“Right again,” Robert tells her. “Y-you are so l-like your father.”

“I hope to be,” Sansa replies softly.

“If that is s-so,” Robert sucks in a breath of his own. “Then d-do something for me. Well, not f-for me actually.”

“For who then?” Sansa asks.

“Myrcella.” Sansa stares. “There’s a w-war coming. It’s going to start almost the m-minute that I die. I need you to g-get her out.”

“Get her out?”

Robert nods, glancing over at the doorway. There’s no one there. “G-Get her out of Kings Landing. She – she will n-not survive what is – is to come.”

Sansa resists the urge to shake the dying king. “What is the come? Your grace?”

Then Robert grabs her hand with strength that she didn’t realize he still had. “S-She will die if you d-do not get her out. I kn-know you love her. And she l-loves you. You’re the s-sister she prayed for. Get her out. _Now.”_

Robert’s grip is still tight, even after he’s dead moments later. The healers have to pry his greying fingers from her arm but she still sits there, lost in a haze until Shae comes to take her out and bring her back to her chambers.

She’s still like that even when Shae helps her undress and practically leads her into the bath like a child. “Milady? _Sansa?”_

Sansa doesn’t answer, holding out a hand for the bar of soap. “Leave me be, please.”

Shae does as she’s told, and Sansa begins to scrub at her skin where Robert’s fingers had gripped her so tightly. She scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until her skin is beet red and slick with her own blood this time. Only then does she relax.

-;

To her surprise, Myrcella is at her usual outside table for breakfast.

“Myrcella?” The younger girl grins and leaps to her feet, rushing over to fold her into a hug. Sansa hugs her back but pulls away after a heartbeat. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not delighted to see you but I thought --?”

“My handmaiden told me this morning to break my fast out here, that Mother said it was okay,” Myrcella tells her as she slides back into her seat.

“She did, did she?” Sansa lowers herself into her own chair. Why would Cersei suddenly change her mind like that?

_Unless..._

Cersei joins them after an hour. Myrcella leaps up to embrace her mother and the warmth on her face is unlike anything Sansa had seen in the months she had been here. Sansa bows low, straightening her spine only when Cersei commands her too. “Your grace, my deepest condolences.”

Cersei nods. “Thank you for your words, little dove. They are greatly appreciated. Please continue with your meal, I wanted to greet my daughter and inform the both of you that the preparations have begun for Joffrey’s coronation.”

A shadow crosses Myrcella’s face so quickly that Sansa is almost sure she imagined it. She doesn’t have time to dwell on that when Myrcella says, “Is there anything we can do to assist, Mother?”

“Actually yes,” Cersei tells them. “I Would like Sansa’s assistance in sewing the new king’s cloak. I’ve seen your lovely work and I think Joffrey would appreciate it as well.”

A sudden grip of panic wraps around Sansa’s throat. She forces a smile onto her face and nods. “I would be honored, your grace.”

“Can I help her, mother?” Myrcella asks.

“Well I don’t see why not,” Cersei says with a smile. “Myrcella, you know what your brother’s tastes are, so you can guide Sansa.”

“When would you need the cloak, your grace?”

“As soon as King Robert is buried, which will be in three days time. I will make sure to have everything you need brought to your chambers.”

With that, Cersei leaves them alone.

-;

Sansa begins work on the cloak immediately. True to Cersei’s word, beautiful deep red fabric is brought to her chambers later that afternoon, along with gold and ruby thread. Myrcella is the one who shows up with the thread and she giggles as she deposits the package into Sansa’s hands.

“I’ve spoken with my dear brother. He asked for you to embroider a golden lion with stag antlers. He wants to honor both Mother and Father’s houses.”

Sansa snorted. She highly doubted Joffrey would care about things like that. “Oh he did, did he?”

“Okay I might have put that idea into his head but it’s so easy,” Myrcella smirks. Sansa likes this girl more and more. “Joffrey was always Mother’s pet. He was her favorite from day one and she always wanted him on the throne after Father’s passing.”

Sansa pulls out a piece of parchment from her desk and begins to sketch out a rough idea of what the embroidery on the cloak would look like. Her nerves are choking her throat because she knows of the temper that Joffrey has, he could send her to the cells if he hates the cloak and without Robert here to protect her anymore – Sansa doesn’t even want to think about that possibility.

Robert’s words haunt her in the night when she tries to sleep. She doesn’t dream about her father’s last bubbling gasps anymore, only the king’s urgent words. What did the king mean? What could he have possibly meant? Sansa’s eyes fall on Myrcella as she pulls the thread from the box, a happy chatter on her lips that Sansa doesn’t listen too closely too.

The princess’s hair is pulled back into a loose braid down her back and her lioness pendant rests at her throat. A light is shining in the girl’s eyes, an innocence and hope for the future. Myrcella believes she will be leaving in two weeks to visit her betrothed in Horn Hill. Myrcella believes that her mother will be able to keep her brother in check on the throne. Myrcella believes that everything will be okay.

A deep dread piles up in Sansa’s stomach and she is suddenly seeing that beautiful girl with blood streaming from her nose and mouth, _choking, gasping_ and –

“Sansa?” With a cough, Sansa glances back at Myrcella, whose face is stretched with sudden worry but there is no sign of blood. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, I’m all right.” She holds up the thread. “Shall we get started?”

-;

She isn’t required to go the funeral procession for the king, but she does watch it travel by out her chambers’ window. Myrcella is behind her mother on their horseback, her slim shoulders adorned in heavy black silks and a small crown of silver on her head. Joffrey leads the procession, the Baratheon crown on his head despite having not been officially declared king. The people gather around their wagon train, Robert’s body covered in midnight black and golden silks.

Sansa felt footsteps behind her but didn’t bother looking up. Petyr Baelish had returned to Kings Landing a week before when the king had called for council. After those bloody words the king had uttered to her on his death bed, Sansa could guess what it was for.

War was coming. And it was coming sooner than the king expected.

“Why are you not out there with your king?”

“The queen wanted only her family,” Baelish shifted his feet quite loudly, his steps echoing down the empty corridor. “I would think the queen would want you to be there at least. You and the princess have become like sisters in these past months.” Sansa remained silent. “I suppose you would do anything for her. Anything to protect her. Am I right?”

The funeral procession has disappeared down the main road, the king’s carriage eaten up by the swarm of small folk. Sansa turns away from the window and fixes her eyes on Baelish’s face. “You are correct, Lord Baelish.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his pinched features but Sansa doesn’t allow herself to enjoy it too long. Shae appears at the end of the corridor then, casting a glance between the two of them before gesturing for Sansa to follow her. And so she does.

-;

King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, is officially crowned that following morning in the sept.

Another dress is waiting for Sansa when she comes out of the bath. This one is a royal blue with long sleeves that draped over her hands. The belt was gold again, but this time there was a small lion’s head encrusted in the center. The look on Shae’s face tells her everything she needs to know.

She slips the small bolt of fabric from her wedding dress down into the front of the folds of her skirt before venturing out into the den of lions.

The sept is filled with people, many of nobles houses, many not. She spots Cersei in the front, standing a few steps down from the altar where Joffrey stood. The cloak she had stayed up three nights to complete lay softly across his shoulders. Myrcella stood on the other side of her brother, Tommen’s hand clenched tightly in both of hers. She’s looking around when Sansa walks up and her young face lights up when she sees her. Sansa returns the smile as best she can and glances around to see the queen’s brothers there too, and Lord Tyrion is walking over to them at that very moment.

He flashes her a warm smile before taking his place beside Shae. Cersei’s scowling in their direction and Sansa glimpses Jaime Lannister hiding a smile behind his hand. She keeps her own gaze towards the front as the ceremony begins, the fabric of her wedding dress clenched tightly in her right hand.

The Baratheon crown is placed on Joffrey’s head and the whole sept breaks into thunderous cheers. Sansa lifts her hands to do the same and then her eyes fall on Myrcella, whose face is clenched in slight fear but when Sansa looks back, it’s not there anymore and she half wonders if she imagined it.

Everyone starts pairing off to follow the new king as he leads the procession out onto the streets to greet the smallfolk. Jaime offers his arm to Cersei and Myrcella keeps a firm grip on Tommen’s as they follow. Tyrion takes Shae’s hand and they fall into line as well. An arm cloaked in black is suddenly before her and Sansa doesn’t look up into Baelish’s face before she takes it.

The courtyard is brimming with thousands of people, all shouting and cheering but she does hear the occasional brave jeer. _All of it is for show, all of it._

“The rebellion will begin soon,” Baelish murmurs, loud enough for only her to hear. “They don’t want a Lannister on the throne. Much like how they don’t want another Targaryen to ever step foot in Westeros ever again.”

“What happens after?” Sansa finds herself asking.

“How do you know there is an after?”

Sansa suddenly has the urge to vomit.

-;

“I thought it would feel different.”

Sansa rolled her head to the side. “In what way?”

“I thought I would cry?” Myrcella murmurs. “My father is dead. We buried him yesterday and I don’t even feel sad.” Sansa lifted a brow but said nothing. Grief comes in many ways, and it would eventually come for Myrcella. “...he wasn’t really.”

“Huh?” Sansa grunted, ignoring how un-ladylike that sounded. “He wasn’t really what?”

Myrcella sat up slowly, biting her lip. “Can you keep a secret?”

Sansa hesitated. She wasn’t the best at keeping secrets, especially when she was a child. Whenever her brothers would accidentally break something and make her swear not to tell their mother, Catelyn would have to fix her with just one look and she’d spill like a waterfall.

Before she can answer, Myrcella’s saying it. “King Robert...wasn’t my father.”

Sansa sits up all to quickly that her head spins. Her scarlet locks fly about in the breeze coming in from the open window and she practically falls off the bed in her haste to shut that window and turn back to the nearly weeping girl on her bed. “Princess, you must be mistaken.”

Myrcella flinched at the sound of her title and shook her head. “I’m not.”

Lowering her voice, Sansa creeps back to where she sits, kneeling before her. “What do you mean by it then?”

Tears spill from Myrcella’s eyes and down her thin face. Biting down on her bottom lip to stem those tears back, her voice wobbles as she says, “H-he wasn’t m-my n-natural father. My uncle J-Jaime is.”

And the world turns on it’s head once again.

Myrcella’s crying too hard to say anything else and all Sansa can do after that is gather the girl in her arms and hold her tightly.

After what seems like an eternity, Sansa gently pulls Myrcella’s hands from her shoulders to look into her eyes. “How do you know this? _Myrcella.”_

She swipes at her tear stained face before answering, “I s-saw them. Together. It was about a y-year ago. Father was gone on one of his h-hunting trips and I had been with my septa for the day. I didn’t f-feel well and I snuck away from h-her to go and rest in m-my room and I wanted to see my mother for a moment and that’s when –“

“Okay, okay. I think I understand.” Sansa felt like she was going to vomit. Out of all the things she thought of Cersei Lannister, she never expected something like _this._ But...

Her gaze flickers up to Myrcella and she sees it now. She wonders how she missed it before.

Myrcella was a replica of her mother. An exact replica. She held nothing of King Robert in her features. People told her often how much she resembled her mother, which was true. But she also had her father’s chin, and her uncle Benjen’s ears. She had Stark features, she knew she was a Stark and a Tully.

Myrcella was not a Baratheon.

She was a Lannister.

So this is what Baelish meant.

-;

Sansa avoids Myrcella for the next few days, hating herself every moment. The celebrations carry on for Joffrey’s coronation and she drags herself to one of the many dances that are held in his honor. There she sees Myrcella dancing with her uncle – no _father._ Jaime gazes at her with such tenderness that she only saw on the face of her own father in what felt like a lifetime ago. And in a way, it truly was.

Baelish is there too. He’s standing near the king but not paying him much mind, his peering gaze flickering around from person to person, measuring each and every one of them up.

Her spine straightens when that gaze settles on her.

Sansa cocks her head to the side, towards the door, towards the godswood where she will be in the next few minutes. Where she knows Baelish will follow.

And he does. He’s there before she is, waiting for her by the tree heavy with scarlet leaves, his eyes glittering like two beetles scurrying along in the sun. Sansa’s stomach tightens in fear, she feels like she is about to sell her soul to the creator of the Seven Hells.

And in a way she is.

“Have you decided?”

Sansa nods. “I have.”

“So what is it?” Baelish asks. “Do I obtain a ship for you to flee to Essos where you live out the rest of your days? Or do you stay here and die in the thrush of what is to come?”

Another deep swallow follows, and another surprise burn of tears. “Obtain the ship,” she mutters carefully. “But not for me.”

-;

Myrcella sleeps so soundly.

Sansa pokes her shoulder almost too lightly, hating herself more and more. “’Cella?  _Myrcella.”_

“Sansa?”

She nods and gently tugs on her hand. “Aye it is me. You have to get up. Get up and get dressed in your riding clothes.”

“My riding clothes?” Myrcella repeats, brushing the sleep out of her eyes. “For what? What’s happening?”

“I’ll explain everything, but please hurry.”

The girl nodded and did as she was told, stripping out of her shift and pulling on the breeches and heavy tunic right in front of Sansa with no shame. Sansa helped her lace up her boots and slip on her jacket, tying her thick blond locks into a braid down her back. “No, not out that door,” Sansa stops her from heading out into the main corridor and gestures to the other that leads to where the handmaidens’ chambers are.

Shae is waiting for them there, dressed similarly as Myrcella. She carries a small rucksack in her arms, stuffed full of bread, cheese, and dried fruit. Myrcella opened her mouth to question it again but Shae shushed her this time, the three of them making with haste down the slimmer corridor and towards a door that Sansa had never noticed before.

The door leads them into the courtyard, but the corner that is not guarded as heavily as the others. The one guard that is there is asleep, his mouth drooping open in quite the comical snore. The three of them slip past with ease and follow a path down to the harbor where Sansa sees the ship waiting.

Myrcella understands and freezes. “No.”

“Myrcella –“

“No, you are not making me leave. You’re _not.”_

Sansa grabbed her arms in a vice like grip, making the princess flinch. “There is a rebellion to happen in three days time. The townsfolk do not want your brother on the throne and now that Robert is gone, there is no one to push them back. If you know about your true father, who else knows? They will come for you and they will come for Tommen. ”

Myrcella winced, her green eyes wide with fear. “You don’t mean that.”

Shae nods. “It’s true, princess.”

“But my family – _Tommen –“_

“We will get him out next, but you were my first priority, Myrcella. I’ve lost my whole family. They’re all _dead.”_ Tears are falling from Myrcella’s eyes but Sansa plunges on. “My father died in my _arms._ My husband, my mother – my sister is dead for all I know. _You_ are all that’s good right now and if anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would _do._ Do you understand me?” Myrcella nodded wordlessly. “So you and Shae are going to get on this ship and you are going to _go._ You are going to go to Essos and live in the free cities and be safe.”

Myrcella grabbed one of her hands that was wrapped around her upper arm. “Come with me.”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, I cannot. If we both disappeared than it would be over.”

“They’ll kill _you.”_

“Maybe,” Sansa says, the word tasting like poison on her tongue. “But in the end, it would be worth it.” Myrcella breaks into quiet sobs and throws her arms around her. Sansa embraces her back, pressing a kiss to her cheek before pulling away. “Sh-Shae –“

The brunette nodded and gently pried Myrcella away. “Come now, princess.”

“Shae – thank you.” Shae nodded and led Myrcella down the dock and onto the waiting ship. Sansa followed as far as she could, and she watched as the waiting crew helped the two of them onto the small ship. The ship seemed to swallow them up and the darkness carried the ship away. The last thing she saw was the small rose engraved into the mast.

-;

Getting back into the Red Keep was much easier than she expected. The guards were still asleep and she walked by them without problem. Of course Baelish is waiting for her right inside the door.

“What did you give those guards?”

Baelish chuckled. “Nothing. Since the death of the king, they haven’t been the best at their game.”

Sansa sniffed but said nothing, quietly passing the Master of the Coin to head up the stairs to return to her chambers. There was not going to be any sleep tonight.

“You did the right thing, you know,” Baelish says.

Sansa stops and looks back at the man who had probably just manipulated her into ending her own life. “I know.”

A smile spreads across her lips as she continues up the stairs. Yes, she would most likely be dead by this time tomorrow but it doesn’t matter now. Myrcella was alive. Myrcella was safe. That was all that mattered.

_Jon...Jon if you’re still here...forgive me._

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s gonna be just fine. And Myrcella will be back. Also Baelish and Sansa were not the only ones that got Myrcella out. What exactly was engraved on the mast of the boat? 
> 
> ps. Timeline wise, it's been six months since Jon and Sansa's wedding. 
> 
> Please leave me your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> I have worked my butt off on this beast so please lots of feedback, lol. I really want to keep telling this story. Thank you so much!


End file.
